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ENOCH    ARDEN, 


&c. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON'S  WRITINGS. 


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ENOCH    ARDEN, 


&c 


BY 


ALFRED   TENNYSON,   D.  C.  L., 


POET-LAUREATK. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS 

1864. 


It  is  my  wish  that  with  Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Fields 
alone  the  right  of  publishing  my  books  in  America  should 
rest. 

ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


University   Press: 
Welch,  Bigelow,  and  Company, 

Cambridge. 


CONTENTS 


Pagb 

Enoch  Arden        .••••;..  7 

Aylmer's  Field  • 59 

Sea  Dreams 107 

The  Grandmother 127 

Northern  Farmer 143 

Miscellaneous. 

Tithonus \  157 

The  Voyage 162 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz  ....  169 

The  Flower 170 

Requiescat 172 

The  Sailor-Boy 173 

The  Islet 175 

The  Ringlet 178 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra       .       .       .       ,  182 


6  _  CONTENTS. 

Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the  International 

Exhibition 184 

A  Dedication      .        .        .        ,        ,        ,        .        187 
Experiments. 

BoADiCEA 191 

In  Quantity 200 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the   Iliad   in 

Blank  Verse 203 


ENOCH    ARDEN 


ENOCH    ARDEN, 


Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a  cliasm ; 
And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow  sands ; 
Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a  narrow  wharf 
In  cluster ;  then  a  mouldered  church ;  and  higher 
A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower*d  null ; 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray  down 
With  Danish  barrows ;  and  a  hazelwood, 
By  autunm  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a  cuplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie  Lee, 
1* 


10  ENOCH  AKDEN. 

The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 
And  Philip  Ray  the  miller's  only  son, 
And  Enoch  Arden,  a  rough  sailor's  lad 
Made  orphan  by  a  winter  shipwreck,  pla/d 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the  shore, 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing-nets. 
Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,  and  boats  updrawn ; 
And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving  sand 
To  watch  them  overflowed,  or  following  up 
And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  daily  wash*d  away. 

A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  clifl^: 
In  this  the  children  play*d  at  keeping  house. 
Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the  next, 
While  Annie  still  was  mistress ;  but  at  times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a  week : 

*  This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little  wife.* 

*  Mine  too  *  said  Philip  '  turn  and  turn  about  :* 
When,  if  they  quarrell'd,  Enoch  stronger-made 


EHOCH  ▲BDBlf.  11 

Was  master :  then  wotild  PhUip,  his  blae  eyes 
All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of  tears, 
Shriek  out  *  I  hate  yoa,  Enoch,'  and  at  this 
The  little  wife  would  weep  £or  oompanj. 
And  praj  them  not  to  qoarrel  for  her  sake, 
And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both* 

But  when  the  daWn  of  rosy  childhood  past, 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascending  sun 
Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his  heart 
On  that  one  girl ;  and  Enoch  spoke  his  lore, 
But  Philip  loved  in  sOenoe ;  and  the  girl 
Seem'd  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to  him ; 
But  she  loved  Enoch ;  tho'  she  knew  it  not, 
And  would  if  ask'd  deny  it.    Enoch  set 
A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes, 
To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost, 
To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a  home 
For  Annie :  and  so  prospered  that  at  last 
A  luckier  or  a  bolder  fisherman, 


12  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

A  carefuUer  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 

For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten  coast 

Than  Enoch.     Likewise  had  he  served  a  year 

On  board  a  merchantman,  and  made  himself 

Full  sailor ;  and  he  thrice  had  pluck'd  a  life 

From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down-streaming  seas 

And  all  men  look'd  upon  him  favorably : 

And  ere  he  touch'd  his  one-and-twentieth  May 

He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made  a  home 

For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  halfway  up 

The  narrow  street  that  damber'd  toward  the  null. 

Then,  on  a  golden  autumn  eventide, 
The  younger  people  making  holiday, 
With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great  and  small, 
Went  nutting  to  the  hazels.     Philip  stay'd 
(His  father  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 
An  hour  behind ;  but  as  he  climb'd  the  hill, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the  pair. 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  13 

Enoch  and  Anpie,  sitting  hand-in-hand, 
His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten  face 
All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire, 
That  bum'd  as  on  an  altar.     Philip  look'd, 
And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his  doom ; 
Then,  as  their  faces  drew  together,  groan'd, 
And  slipt  aside,  and  like  a  wounded  life 
Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the  wood ; 
There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  in  merrymaking. 
Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose  and  past 
Bearing  a  lifelong  hunger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  rang  the  bells. 
And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy  years, 
Seven  happy  years  of  health  and  competence. 
And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil ; 
With  children ;  first  a  daughter.     In  him  woke. 
With  his  first  babe's  first  cry,  the  noble  wish 
To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost. 
And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing-up 


14  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

Than  his  had  been,  or  hers ;  a  wish  renew'd, 
When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 
The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 
While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful  seas, 
Or  often  journeying  landward ;  for  in  truth 
Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean-spoil 
In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 
Rough-redden'd  with  a  thousand  winter  gales, 
Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were  known. 
But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down. 
Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp. 
And  peacock-yewtree  of  the  lonely  Hall, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  ministering. 

Then  came  a  change,  as  all  things  human  change. 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow  port 
Open'd  a  larger  haven :  thither  used 
Enoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or  sea ; 
And  once  when  there,  and  clambering  on  a  mast 
In  harbor,  by  mischance  he  slipt  and  fell : 


ENOCH    AKDEN.  15 

A  limb  was  broken  wlien  they  lifted  him  ; 

And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his  wife 

Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one  : 

Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 

Taking  her  bread  and  theirs  :  and  on  him  fell, 

Altho*  a  grave  and  staid  God-fearing  man, 

Yet  lying  thus  inactive,,  doubt  and  gloom.  ^ 

He  seem'd,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the  night, 

To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 

Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth. 

And  her,  he  loved,  a  beggar :  then  he  pray'd 

*  Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes  to  me.' 

And  while  he  pray'd,  the  master  of  that  ship 

Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mischance. 

Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued  him, 

Reporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 

And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.    Would  he  go  ? 

There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she  sail'd, 

SaU'd  from  this  port.     Would  Enoch  have  the  place  ? 

And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it. 


16  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance  appear'd 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little  cloud 
Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun. 
And  isles  a  light  in  the  offing :  yet  the  wife  — 
When  he  was  gone  —  the  children — what  to  do  ? 
Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his  plans ; 
To  sell  the  boat  —  and  yet  he  loved  her  well  — 
How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weather'd  in  her ! 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman  knows  his  horse  — 
And  yet  to  sell  her  —  then  with  what  she  brought 
Buy  goods  and  stores  —  set  Annie  forth  in  trade 
"With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their  wives  —    . 
So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he  was  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder  ?  go 
This  voyage  more  than  once  ?  yea  twice  or  thrice  - 
As  oft  as  needed  —  last,  returning  rich, 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft. 
With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life, 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  17 

Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  educated, 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his  own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined  all : 
Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie  pale, 
Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-bom. 
Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry, 
And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms ; 
Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his  limbs. 
Appraised  his  weight  and  fondled  fathSftike, 
But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 
To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he  spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring  had  girt 
Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his  will : 
Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she. 
But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear, 
Many  a  sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  renew'd 
(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 
Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 


18  ENOCH   AEDEN. 

For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her, 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in  vain ; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it  thro*. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea-friend, 
Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and  set  his  hand 
To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting-room 
"With  shelf  and  gomer  for  the  goods  and  stores. 
So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at  home, 
Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and  axe, 
Auger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem'd  to  hear 
Her  own  death-scaffold  raising,  shrill'd  and  rang, 
Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  careful  hand,  — 
The  space  was  narrow,  —  having  order'd  all 
Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature  packs 
Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused ;  and  he. 
Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to  the  last, 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 


ENOCH  ARDEN.  19 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of  farewell 
Brightly  and  boldly.    All  his  Annie's  fears, 
Save,  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to  him. 
Yet  Enoch  as  a  brave  God-fearing  man 
Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mystery 
Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man-in- God, 
Pray'd  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and  babes 
Whatever  came  to  him :  and  then  he  said 
*  Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of  God 
Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear  fire  for  me. 
For  1 11  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you  know  it.* 
Then  hghtly  rocking  baby's  cradle  '  and  he. 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,  — 
Nay  —  for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for  it  — 
God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  my  knees 
And  I  will  tell  him  tale^  of  foreign  parts, 
And  make  him -merry,  when  I  come  home  again. 
Come  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I  go.* 


20  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

Him  running  on  thus  hopefully  she  heard, 
And  almost  hoped  herself;  but  when  he  turned 
The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  things 
In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 
On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven,  she  heard. 
Heard  and  not  heard  him ;  as  the  village  girl. 
Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  the  spring. 
Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for  her, 
Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  overflow. 

At  length  she  spoke  *  0  Enoch,  you  are  wise ; 
And  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well  know  I 
That  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  no  more.* 

^  Well  then,'  said  Enoch,  *  I  shall  look  on  yours. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 
(He  named  the  day)  get  you  a  seaman's  glass. 
Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your  fears.* 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  moments  came, 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  21 

*  Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  be  comforted, 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I  come  again. 
Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I  must  go. 
And  fear  no  more  for  me ;  or  if  you  fear 
Cast  all  your  cares  on  God ;  that  anchor  holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 

Parts  of  the  morning  ?  if  I  flee  to  these 
Can  I  go  from  Him  ?  and  the  sea  is  Hisr, 
The  sea  is  His :  He  made  it* 

Enoch  rose. 
Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  drooping  wife, 
And  kiss*d  his  wonder-stricken  little  ones ; 
But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who  slept 
After  a  night  of  feverous  wakefulness. 
When  Annie  would  have  raised  him  Enoch  said 

*  Wake  him  not ;  let  him  sleep  ;  how  should  the  child 
Remember  this  ?  *  and  kiss*d  him  in  his  cot. 

But  Annie  from  her  baby's  forehead  clipt 
A  tiny  curl,  and  gave  it :  this  he  kept 


22  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

Thro'  all  his  future  ;  but  now  hastily  caught. 
His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went  his  way. 

She  when  the  day,  that  Enoch  mention'd,  came, 
Borrowed  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain  :  perhaps 
She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her  eye  ; 
Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremulous ; 
She  saw  him  noi :  and  while  he  stood  on  deck 
Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel  past. 

EVn  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishing  sail 
She  watch'd  it,  and  departed  weeping  for  him  ; 
Then,  tho'  she  moum'd  his  absence  as  his  grave, 
Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with  his, 
But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being  bred 
To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 
By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less. 
And  still  foreboding  *  what  would  Enoch  say  ? ' 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 

And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares  for  less 
Than  what  she  ^ave  in  buying  what  she  sold : 
She  fail'd  and  sadden'd  knowing  it ;  and  thus, 
Expectant  of  that  news  which  never  came, 
Gain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance. 
And  lived  a  life  of  ijlent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly-bom  and  grew 
Yet  sicklier,  tho*  the  mother  cared  for  it 
With  all  a  mother's  care  :  nevertheless, 
Whether  her  business  often  call'd  her  from  it, 
Or  thro'  the  want  of  what  it  needed  most, 
Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best  could  tell 
What  most  it  needed  —  howsoe'er  it  was, 
After  a  lingering,  —  ere  she  was  aware,  — 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly, 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In  that  same  week  when  Annie  buried  it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hunger'd  for  her  peace 


24  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

(Since  Enoch  left  lie  had  not  looked  upon  her), 
Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so  long. 
'  Surely '  said  Philip  '  I  may  see  her  now. 
May  be  some  little  comfort ;  *  therefore  went. 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  room  in  front. 
Paused  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door. 
Then  struck  it  thrice,  and,  no  one  opening, 
Enter'd ;  but  Annie,  seated  with  her  grief. 
Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one, 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face. 
But  turn'd  her  own  toward  the  wall  and  wept. 
Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falteringly 

*  Annie,  I  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.' 

He  spoke ;  the  passion  in  her  moan'd  reply 

*  Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I  am !  *  half  abash'd  him ;  yet  unask'd. 
His  bashfiilness  and  tenderness  at  war. 
He  set  himself  beside  her,  saymg  to  her : 


ENOCH    ARDEN.  25 

*  I  came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  he  wish'd, 
Enoch,  your  husband :  I  have  ever  said 
You  chose  the  best  among  us  —  a  strong  man : 
For  where  he  fixt  his  heart  he  set  his  hand 
To  do  the  thing  he  will'd,  and  bore  it  thro'. 
And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary  way, 
And  leave  you  lonely  ?  not  to  see  the  world  — 
For  pleasure  ?  —  nay,  but  for  the  wherewithal 
To  give  his  babes  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  yours :  that  was  his  wish. 
And  if  he  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 
To  find  the  precious  morning  hours  were  lost. 
And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave, 
If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  running  wild 
Like  colts  about  the  waste.     So,  Annie,  now  — 
Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  our  lives  ? 
I  do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 
Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me  nay  — 
For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes  again 
Why  then  he  shall  repay  me  —  if  you  will, 


26  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

Annie  —  for  I  am  ricli  and  well-to-do. 
Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school : 
This  is  the  favor  that  I  came  to  ask.' 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  agaiast  the  wall 
Answer'd  *  I  cannot  look  you  in  the  face ; 
I  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down. 
When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke  me  down ; 
And  now  I  think  your  kindness  breaks  me  down ; 
But  Enoch  lives ;  that  is  borne  in  on  me : 
He  will  repay  you :  money  can  be  repaid ; 
Not  kindness  such  as  yours.' 

And  Philip  ask'd 
*  Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie  ? ' 

There  she  tum'd, 
She  rose,  and  fixt  her  swimming  eyes  upon  him, 
And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  kindly  face, 
Then  calling  down  a  blessing  ou  his  head 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  27 

Caught  at  his  hand,  and  wrung  it  passionately, 
And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school, 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and  everyway. 
Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own. 
Made  himself  theirs  ;  and  tho*  for  Annie's  sake. 
Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port. 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish, 
And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet  he  sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and  fruit. 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and  then. 
With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the  meal 
To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the  waste. 

But  PhUip  did  not  fathom  Annie's  mind : 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came  upon  her, 


28  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  gratitude 
Light  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him  with. 
But  Philip  was  her  children's  all-in-all ; 
From  distant  comers  of  the  street  they  ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily  ; 
Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were  they ; 
"Worried  his  passive  ear  with  petty  wrongs 
Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play'd  with  him 
And  call'd  him  Father  Philip.     Philip  gain'd 
As.  Enoch  lost ;  for  Enoch  seem'd  to  them 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream, 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 
Going  we  know  not  where  :  and  so  ten  years. 
Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native  land, 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch  came. 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  children  long'd 
To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood. 
And  Annie  would  go  with  them  ;  then  they  begg'd 


ENOCH    ARDEN.  29 

For  Father  Philip  (as  they  call'd  him)  too  : 

^im,  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom-dust, 

Blanch'd  with  his  mill,  they  found ;  and  saying  to  him 

*  Come  with  us  Father  Philip '  he  denied ; 

But  when  the  children  pluck'd  at  him  to  go. 

He  laugh'd,  and  yielded  readily  to  their  wish, 

For  was  not  Annie  with  them  ?  and  they  went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary  down, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her  force 
Fail'd  her ;  and  sighing  '  let  me  rest '  she  said  : 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content ; 
While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubilant  cries 
Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumultuously 
Down  thro*  the  whitening  hazels  made  a  plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  bent  or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each  other 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the  wood. 


so  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her  presence,  and  remember'd  one  dark  hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded  life 
He  crept  into  the  shadow  :  at  last  he  said 
Lifting  his  honest  forehead  ^  Listen,  Annie, 
How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in  the  wood/ 

*  Tired,  Annie  ? '  for  she  did  not  speak  a  word. 

*  Tired  ? '  but  her  face  had  fall'n  upon  her  hands ; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in  him, 

*  The  ship  was  lost  *  he  said  '  the  ship  was  lost  I 
No  more  of  that !  why  should  you  kill  yourself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite  ? '     And  Annie  said 

*  I  thought  not  of  it :  but  —  I  know  not  why  — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary/ 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer  spoke. 

*  Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my  mind, 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long. 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first  came  there, 
I  know  that  it  will  out  at  last.     O  Annie, 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  31 

It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance, 
■Riat  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be  living ;  well  then  —  let  me  speak : 
I  grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting  help : 
*I  cannot  help  you  as  I  wish  to  do 
Unless  —  they  say  that  women  are  so  quick  — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have  you  know  — 
I  wish  you  for  my  wife.     I  fain  would  prove 
A  father  to  your  children  :  I  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father :  I  am  sure 
That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine  own ; 
And  I  believe,  if  you  were  fast  my  wife, 
That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain  years, 
We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God  grants 
To  any  of  His  creatures.     Think  upon  it : 
For  I  am  well-to-do  —  no  kin,  no  care, 
No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and  yours : 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our  lives. 
And  I  have  loved  you  longer  than  you  know.* 


32  ENOCH   AKDEN. 

Then  answer'd  Annie ;  tenderly  she  spoke : 

*  You  have  been  as  God's  good  angel  in  our  house. 
God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  you  for  it, 
Philip,  with  something  happier  than  myself. 

Can  one  love  twice  ?  can  you  be  ever  loved 
As  Enoch  was  ?  what  is  it  that  you  ask  ?  * 

*  I  am  content '  he  answer'd  '  to  be  loved 
A  little  after  Enoch.'     '  O '  she  cried 
Scared  as  it  were  '  dear  Philip,  wait  a  while  : 
If  Enoch  comes  —  but  Enoch  will  not  come  — 
Yet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long : 

m 

Surely  I  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year : 

0  wait  a  little  ! '     Philip  sadly  said 

*  Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life 

1  well  may  wait  a  little.'     '  Nay  '  she  cried 

*  I  am  bound  :  you  have  my  promise  —  in  a  year : 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide  mine  ? ' 
And  Philip  answer'd  '  I  will  bide  my  year.' 

Here  both  were  mute,  till  Philip  glancing  up 


\ 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  33 

Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day- 
Pass  from  the  Danish  barrow  overhead ; 
Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Annie  rose, 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro*  the  wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their  spoil ; 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and  there  >- 
At  Annie's  door  he  paused  and  gave  his  hand, 
Saying  gently  *  Annie,  when  I  spoke  to  you, 
That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.    I  was  wrong. 
I  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you  are  free.' 
Then  Annie  weeping  answer'd  *  I  am  bound.' 

She  spoke ;  and  in  one  moment  as  it  were, 
While  yet  she  went  about  her  household  ways, 
EVn  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest  words. 
That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she  knew, 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flash'd  again, 
And  there  he  stood  once  more  before  her  face, 
Claiming  her  promise.     ^  Is  it  a  year  ? '  she  ask'd. 
*  Yes,  if  the  nuts  *  he  said  '  be  ripe  again : 
2*  O 


34  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

Come  out  and  see.'     But  she  —  she  put  him  off — 
So  much  to  look  to  —  such  a  change  —  a  month  — 
Give  her  a  month  —  she  knew  that  she  was  bound  - 
A  month  —  no  more.     Then  Philip  with  his  eyes 
Full  of  that  Hfelong  hunger,  and  his  voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
*  Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take  your  own  time.' 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity  of  him ; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a  scarce-believable  excuse. 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long-sufferance. 
Till  half-another  year  had  slipt  away. 

I 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port. 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost. 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong. 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but  trifle  with  her ; 
Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw  him  on ; 
And  others  laugh'd  at  her  and  Philip  too. 
As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their  own  minds ; 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  35 

And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 

Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 

"Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.     Her  own  son 

Was  silent,  tho'  he  often  look'd  his  wish ; 

But  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon  her 

To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 

And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty ; 

And  Philip's  rosy  face  contracting  grew 

Careworn  and  wan  ;  and  all  these  things  fell  on  her 

Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  earnestly  ^ 

Pray'd  for  a  sign  *  my  Enoch  is  he  gone  ? ' 
Then  compass'd  round  by  the  blind  wall  of  night 
Brook'd  not  the  expectant  terror  of  her  heart, 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a  light. 
Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign, 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text,  ^ 


36  ENOCH    ARDEN. 

*  Under  a  palmtree.'     That  was  nothing  to  her : 
No  meaning  there  :  she  closed  the  book  and  slept : 
When  lo  !  her  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height, 
Under  a  palmtree,  over  him  the  Sun : 

*  He  is  gone '  she  thought  *  he  is  happy,  he  is  singing 
Hosanna  in  the  highest :  yonder  shines 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these  be  palms 
Whereof  the  happy  people  strowing  cried 
"  Hosanna  in  the  highest ! '"   Here  she  woke, 
Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly  to  him 

*  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  wed.' 

*  Then  for  God's  sake,'  he  answer'd,  '  both  our  sakes, 
S#  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once.' 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang  the  bells, 
Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were  wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 
A  footstep  seem'd  to  fall  beside  her  path, 
She  knew  not  whence ;  a  whisper  on  her  ear, 
She  knew  not  what ;  nor  loved  she  to  be  left 


ENOCH    ARDEN.  37 

Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out  alone. 
What  ail'd  her  then,  that  ere  she  enter'd,  often 
Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the  latch, 
Fearing  to  enter :  Philip  thought  he  knew : 
Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common  to  her  state, 
Being  with  child :  but  when  her  child  was  born, 
Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself  renew'd, 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her  heart. 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all. 
And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly  died. 

And  where  was  Enoch  ?  prosperously  sail'd 
The  ship  *  Good  Fortune,'  tho*  at  setting  forth 
The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward,  shook 
And  almost  overwhelmed  her,  yet  unvext 
She  slipt  across  the  summer  of  the  world. 
Then  after  a  long  tumble  about  the  Cape 
And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and  fair, 
She  passing  thro'  the  summer  world  again. 
The  breath  of  heaven  came  continually 


S8  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden  isles, 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and  bought 
Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of  those  times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her  home-voyage  :  at  first  indeed 
Thro'  many  a  fair  sea-circle,  day  by  day. 
Scarce-rocking,  her  full-busted  figure-head 
Stared  o'er  the  ripple  feathering  from  her  bows  : 
Then  followed  calms,  and  then  winds  variable, 
Then  baffling,  a  long  course  of  them ;  and  last 
Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moonless  heavens 
Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of '  breakers '  came 
The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 
But  Enoch  and  two  others.     Half  the  night, 
Buoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken  spars. 
These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at  morn 
Kich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a  lonely  sea. 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  39 

No  want  was  there  of  human  sustenance, 
Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  nourishing  rooti^ ; 
Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 
The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was  tame. 
There  in  a  seaward-gazing  mountain-gorge 
They  built,  and  thatch'd  with  leaves  of  palm,  a  hut, 
Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.     So  the  three, 
Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness. 
Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-content. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more  than  boy. 
Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and  wreck. 
Lay  lingering  out  a  three-years'  death-in-life. 
They  could  not  leave  him.     After  he  was  gone. 
The  two  remaining  found  a  fallen  stem ; 
And  Enoch's  comrade,  careless  of  himself. 
Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion,  fell 
Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 
In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God's  warning  *  wait.' 


40  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  lawns 
And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways  to  Heaven, 
The  slender  coco*s  drooping  crown  of  plumes, 
The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird, 
The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil'd  around  the  stately  stems,  and  ran 
Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the  world, 
All  these  he  saw ;  but  what  he  fain  had  seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face, 
Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl, 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef, 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  branch'd 
And  blossomed  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 
Of  some  precipitous  i-ivulet  to  the  wave. 
As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 
Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail : 
No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 


ENOCH   AKDEN.  41 

The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 

Among  the  pahns  and  ferns  and  precipices  ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 

The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  themselves  in  Heaven, 

The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise  —  but  no  sail. 

There  often  as  he  watch'd  or  seem'd  to  watch, 
So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused, 
A  phantom  made  of  many  phantoms  moved 
Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  himself 
Moved  haunting  people,  things  and  places,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line ; 
The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the  small  house. 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy  lanes. 
The  peacock-yewtree  and  the  lonely  Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold,  the  chill 
November  dawns  and  dewy-glooming  downs. 


43  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying  leaves, 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color'd  seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his  ears, 
Tho'  faintly,  merrily  —  far  and  far  away  — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish  bells ; 
Then,  tho'  he  knew  not  wherefore,  started  up 
Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous  hateful  isle 
Retum'd  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor  heart 
Spoken  with  That,  which  being  everywhere 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem  all  alone, 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over  Enoch's  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and  went 
Year  after  year.     His  hopes  to  see  his  own, 
And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields, 
Not  yet  had  perish'd,  when  his  lonely  doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.     Another  ship 
(She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling  winds. 


ENOCH    ARDEN.  43 

Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  destined  course, 

Sta/d  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where  she  lay : 

For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early  dawn 

Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen  isle 

The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills, 

They  sent  a  crew  that  landing  burst  away 

In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  fill'd  the  shores 

"With  clamor.     Downward  from  his  mountain  gorge 

Stept  the  long-hair'd  long-bearded  solitary. 

Brown,  looking  hardly  human,  strangely  clad. 

Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiotlike  it  seem'd, 

"With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making  signs 

They  knew  not  what :  and  yet  he  led  the  way 

To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water  ran ; 

And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew. 

And  heard  them  talking,  his  long-bounden  tongue 

Was  loosen'd,  till  he  made  them  understand ; 

WTiom,  when  their  casks  were  fill'd  they  took  aboard  : 

And  there  the  tale  he  utter'd  brokenly. 

Scarce  credited  at  first  but  more  and  more, 


44  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen'd  to  it : 

And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free  passage  home ; 

But  oft  he  work'd  among  the  rest  and  shook 

His  isolation  from  him.     None  of  these 

Came  from  his  county,  or  could  answer  him, 

If  question'd,  aught  of  what  he  cared  to  know. 

And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long  delays. 

The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy  ;  but  evermore 

His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 

Returning,  till  beneath  a  clouded  moon 

He  like  a  lover  down  thro'  all  his  blood 

Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning-breath 

Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly  wall : 

And  that  same  morning  officers  and  men 

Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves. 

Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him  it : 

Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed  him, 

EVn  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail'd  before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  anyone. 


ENOCH    ARDEN.  45 

But  homeward  —  home  —  what  home  ?  had  he  a  home  ? 

His  home,  he  walk'd.     Bright  was  that  afternoon, 

Smmy  but  chill ;  tiU  drawn  thro'  either  chasm. 

Where  either  haven  open'd  on  the  deeps, 

RoU'd  a  sea-haze  and  whelm'd  the  world  in  gray ; 

Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  before. 

And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and  right 

Of  wither'd  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 

On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  Robin  piped 

Disconsolate,  and  thro*  the  dripping  haze 

The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore  it  down  : 

Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the  gloom  ; 

Last,  as  it  seem'd,  a  great  mist-blotted  light 

Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the  place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having  slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 
His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reach'd  the  home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and  his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were  born  ; 


46  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur  there 
(A  bill  of  sale  gleam'd  thro'  the  drizzle)  crept 
Still  downward  thinking  ^  dead  or  dead  to  me ! ' 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf  he  went, 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  front  of  timber-crost  antiquity, 
So  propt,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old. 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone  ;  but  he  was  gone 
Who  kept  it ;  and  his  widow,  Miriam  Lane, 
With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the  house ; 
A  haunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but  now 
Stiller,  with  yet  a  bed  for  wandering  men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and  garrulous. 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in, 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the  port. 
Not  knowing  —  Enoch  was  so  brown,  so  bow'd, 
So  broken  —  all  the  story  of  his  house. 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  47 

His  baby's  death,  her  growing  poverty, 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school, 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing  her, 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the  birth 
Of  Philip's  child :  and  o'er  his  countenance 
No  shadow  past,  nor  motion :  anyone, 
Kegarding,  well  had  deem'd  he  felt  the  tale 
Less  than  the  teller :  only  when  she  closed 

*  Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and  lost ' 
He,  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically. 
Repeated  muttering  *  cast  away  and  lost ;  * 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers  '  lost ! ' 

But  Enoch  yeam'd  to  see  her  face  again ; 

*  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy.'     So  the  thought 
Haunted  and  harass'd  him,  and  drove  him  forth. 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 

Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below ; 


48  ENOCH    ARDEN. 

There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon  him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
Far-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip's  house. 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the  street. 
The  latest  house  to  landward  ;  but  behind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on  the  waste, 
Flourish'd  a  little  garden  square  and  wall'd : 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 
But  Enoch  shunn'd  the  middle  walk  and  stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew ;  and  thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  shunn'd,  if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  49 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnish'd  board 
Sparkled  and  shone ;  so  genial  was  the  hearth : 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-hair'd  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear'd  his  creasy  arms, 
Caught  at  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they  laugh'd : 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her  babe, 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with  him, 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and  strong. 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life  beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee, 


60  ENOCH   AllDEN. 

And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  happiness. 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful, 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place, 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's  love,  — 
Then  he,  tho'  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all, 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard, 
Stagger'd  and  shook,  holding  the  branch,  and  fear'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry, 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of  doom. 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief. 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  underfoot. 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be  found, 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open'd  it,  and  closed. 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door. 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but  that  his  knees 


KNOCn    ARDEN.  51 

Were  feeble,  so  that  faljing  prone  he  dug  • 

His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  pray'd. 

*  Too  hard  to  bear !  why  did  they  take  me  thence  ? 
O  God  Ahnighty,  blessed  Saviour,  Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle, 
Uphold  me.  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A  little  longer !  aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace. 
My  children  too !  must  I  not  speak  to  these  ? 
They  know  me  not.     I  should  betray  myself. 
Never :  no  father's  kiss  for  me  —  the  girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my  son.' 

There  speech  and  thought  and  nature  fail'd  a  little. 
And  he  lay  tranced ;  but  when  he  rose  and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again, 
All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street  he  went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  wearj'  brain. 


52  ENOCH  ARDEN. 

As  thW  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 

*  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know/ 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.     His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  evermore 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the  will, 
And  beating  up  thro'  all  the  bitter  world. 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea. 
Kept  him  a  living  soul.     '  This  miller's  wife ' 
He  said  to  Miriam  *  that  you  told  me  of. 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband  lives  ? ' 

*  Ay  ay,  poor  soul '  said  Miriam,  *  fear  enow ! 
If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him  dead, 
Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort ; '  and  he  thought 

*  After  the  Lord  has  call'd  me  she  shall  know, 
I  wait  His  time '  and  Enoch  set  himself. 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to  live. 
Ahnost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  his  hand. 
Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  and  wrought 
To  make  the  boatmen  fishing-nets,  or  help'd 


ENOCH    ARDEN.  53 

At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks, 
That  brought  the  stinted  commerce  of  those  days ; 
Thus  eam'd  a  scanty  liviag  for  hunself  : 
Yet  smce  he  did  but  labor  for  himself, 
Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life  in  it 
Whereby  tJie  man  could  live ;  and  as  the  year 
Roll'd  itself  round  again  to  meet  the  day 
When  Enoch  had  retum'd,  a  languor  came 
Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do  no  more, 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last  his  bed. 
And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheerfully. 
For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded  wreck 
See  thro'  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting  squaU 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life  approach 
To  save  the  life  despair'd  of,  than  he  saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close  of  all. 

For  thro'  that  dawning  gleam'd  a  kindlier  hope 
On  Enoch  thinking  *  after  I  am  gone, 


54  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

Then  may  she  learn  I  loved  her  to  the  last.' 
He  call'd  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and  said 

*  Woman,  I  have  a  secret  —  only  swear, 
Before  I  tell  you  —  swear  upon  the  book 
Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead.' 

*  Dead '  clamor'd  the  good  woman  '  hear  him  talk ! 
I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring  you  round.' 

*  Swear '  added  Enoch  sternly  '  on  the  book.' 
And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miriam  swore. 
Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon  her, 

*  Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this  town  ?  * 

*  Know  him  ? '  she  said  '  I  knew  him  far  away. 
Ay,  ay,  I  mind  him  coming  down  the  street ; 
Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no  man,  he.' 
Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer'd  her ; 

*  His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares  for  him. 
I  think  I  have  not  three  days  more  to  live ; 
I  am  the  man.'  At  which  the  woman  gave 
A  half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 

*  You  Arden,  you !  nay,  —  sure  he  was  a  foot 


ENOCH    ARDEN.  55 

Higher  than  yoa  be.'     Euoch  said  again 

*  My  God  has  bow'd  me  down  to  what  I  am ; 

My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken  me  ; 

Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I  am  he 

Who  married  —  but  that  name  has  twice  been  changed  — 

I  married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray. 

Sit,  listen/     Then  he  told  her  of  his  voyage, 

His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming  back, 

His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve. 

And  how  he  kept  it     As  the  woman  heard, 

Fast  flowed  the  current  of  her  easy  tears, 

Wliile  in  her  heart  she  yearn'd  incessantly 

To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little  haven, 

Proclaiming  Enoch  Arden  and  his  woes ; 

But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she  forbore, 

Saying  only  *  See  your  bairns  before  you  go  ! 

Eh,  let  me  fetch  'em,  Arden,'  and  arose 

Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch  hung 

A  moment  on  her  words,  but  then  replied. 


5Q  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

^  Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the  last. 
But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 
Sit  down  again ;  mark  me  and  understand, 
While  I  have  power  to  speak.     I  charge  you  now, 
When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  I  died 
Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving  her ; 
Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving  her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my  own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I  saw 
So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest  breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying  for  her. 
And  tell  my  son  that  I  died  blessing  him. 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blest  him  too  ; 
He  never  meant  us  any  thing  but  good. 
But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me  dead. 
Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them  come, 
I  am  their  father ;  but  she  must  not  come, 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after-life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my  blood, 
Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to-be : 


ENOCH   ARDEN.  57 

This  hair  is  his  :  she  cut  it  off  and  gave  it, 
And  I  have  borne  it  with  me  all  these  years, 
And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my  grave ; 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I  shall  see  him, 
My  babe  in  bliss :  wherefore  when  I  am  gone. 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort  her : 
It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her, 
That  I  am  he/ 

He  ceased ;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promising  all,  ' 
That  once  again  he  roll'd  his  eyes  upon  her 
Repeating  all  he  wish'd,  and  once  again 
She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this, 
While  Enoch  slumber'd  motionless  and  pale, 
And  Miriam  watch'd  and  dozed  at  intervals, 
There  came  so  loud  a  calling  of  the  sea, 
That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 

8* 


58  ENOCH   ARDEN. 

He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms  abroad 

Crying  with  a  loud  voice  *  a  sail !  a  sail ! 

I  am  saved ' ;  and  so  fell  back  and  spoke  no  more. 

So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little  port 
Had  seldoiQ  seen  a  costlier  funeral. 


AYLMER'S     FIELD, 


I793. 


AYLMER*S    FIELD. 
1793- 


Dust  are  our  frames ;  and,  gilded  dust,  our  pride 
Looks  only  for  a  moment  whole  and  sound ; 
Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king. 
Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  ornaments, 
"Wliich  at  a  touch  of  light,  an  air  of  heaven, 
Slipt  into  ashes  and  was  found  no  more. 

Here  is  a  story  which  in  rougher  shape 
Came  from  a  grizzled  cripple,  whom  I  saw 
Sunning  himself  in  a  waste  field  alone  — 
Old,  and  a  mine  of  memories  —  who  had  served, 
Long  since,  a  bygone  Rector  of  the  place, 
And  been  himself  a  part  of  what  he  told. 


62  aylmer's  field. 

Sir  Aylmer  Atlmer  that  almighty  man, 
The  county  God  —  in  whose  capacious  hall, 
Hung  with  a  hundred  shields,  the  family  tree 
Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a  prostrate  king  — 
"Whose  blazing  wyvern  weathercock'd  the  spire. 
Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing'd  his  entry-gates 
And  swang  besides  on  many  a  windy  sign  — 
Whose  eyes  from  under  a  pyramidal  head 
Saw  from  his  windows  nothing  save  his  own  — 
What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than  her. 
His  only  child,  his  Edith,  whom  he  loved        % 
As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully  ? 
But '  he  that  marries  her  marries  her  name ' 
This  fiat  somewhat  soothed  himself  and  wife. 
His  wife  a  faded  beauty  of  the  Baths, 
Insipid  as  the  Queen  upon  a  card ; 
Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  hardly  more 
Than  his  own  shadow  in^a  sickly  sun. 

A  land  of  hops  and  poppy-mingled  corn. 


aylmer's  field. 

Little  about  it  stii-ring  save  a  brook  ! 

A  sleepy  land  where  under  the  same  wheel 

The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year  by  year ; 

Where  almost  all  the  village  had  one  name ; 

Where'Aylmer  follow'd  Aylmer  at  the  Hall 

And  Averill  Averill  at  the  Rectory 

Thrice  over ;  so  that  Rectory  and  Hall, 

Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy, 

Were  open  to  each  other ;  tho'  to  dream 

That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well  had  made 

The  hoar  hair  of  the  Baronet  bristle  up 

With  horror,  worse  than  had  he  heard  his  priest 

Preach  an  inverted  scripture,  sons  of  men 

Daughters  of  God ;  so  sleepy  was  the  land. 

And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will'd  it  so, 
Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range  of  roofs. 
Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree  ? 
There  was  an  Aylmer- Averill  marriage  once, 
When  the  red  rose  was  redder  than  itself, 


64  atlmer's  field. 

And  York's  white  rose  as  red  as  Lancaster's, 

With  wounded  peace  which  each  had  prick'd  to  death. 

*  Not  proven '  Averill  said,  or  laughingly 

*  Some  other  race  of  Averills '  —  prov'n  or  no, 
What  cared  he  ?  what,  if  other  or  the  same  ?         * 
He  lean'd  not  on  his  fathers  but  himself. 

J     But  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 

With  Averill,  and  a  year  or  two  before 
Call'd  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call'd  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neighborhood, 
Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith,  claim 
A  distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 
That  shook  the  heart  of  Edith  hearing  him. 

Sanguine  he  was  :  a  but  less  vivid  hue 
Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut-bloom 
Flamed  in  his  cheek  ;  and  eager  eyes,  that  still 
Took  joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful,  beam'd. 
Beneath  a  manelike  mass  of  rolling  gold. 
Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they  dwelt  on  hers, 


atlmer's  field.  G5 

Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect  else, 
But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood, 
Shone  like  a  mystic  star  between  the  less 
And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro, 
"We  know  not  wherefore ;  bounteously  made. 
And  yet  so  finely,  that  a  troublous  touch 
Thinn'd,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in  a  day, 
A  joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first. 
Leolin's  first  nurse  was,  five  years  after,  hers : 
So  much  the  boy  foreran ;  but  when  his  date 
Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of  playmates,  he 
(Since  Averill  was  a  decad  and  a  half 
His  elder,  and  their  parents  underground) 
Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite,  and  roll'd 
His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her  dipt 
Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the  prone  swing. 
Made  blossom-ball  or  daisy-chain,  arranged 
Her  garden,  sow'd  her  name  and  kept  it  green 
In  living  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales. 


66  atlmer's  field. 

Show'd  her  the  fairy  footings  on  the  grass, 
The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  palms, 
The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy  pines. 
Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look'd  a  flight  of  fairy  arrows  aun'd 
All  at  one  mark,  all  hitting :  make-believes 
For  Edith  and  himself:  or  else  he  forged, 
But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,  bold  adventure,  dungeon,  wreck. 
Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and  true  love 
G'own'd  after  trial ;  sketches  rude  and  faint. 
But  where  a  passion  yet  unborn  perhaps 
Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightingale. 
And  thus  together,  save  for  college-times 
Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a  couple,  fair 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang. 
Or  Heav'n  in  lavish  bounty  moulded,  grew. 
And  more  and  more,  the  maiden  woman-grown, 
He  wasted  hours  with  AveriU;  there,  when  first 


atlmer's  field.  67 

The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 

Into  tliat  phalanx  of  the  summer  spears 

That  soon  should  wear  the  garland ;  there  again 

When  burr  and  bine  were  gather'd ;  lastly  there 

At  Christmas  ;  ever  welcome  at  the  Hall, 

On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide  of  youth 

Broke  with  a  phosphorescence  cheering  even 

My  lady ;  and  the  Baronet  yet  had  laid 

No  bar  between  them :  dull  and  self-involved, 

Tall  and  erect,  but  bending  from  his  height 

With  half-allowing  smiles  for  all  the  world. 

And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main  —  his  pride 

Lay  deeper  than  to  wear  it  as  his  ring  — 

He,  like  an  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 

Would  care  no  more  for  Leolin's  walking  with  her 

Than  for  his  old  Newfoundland's,  when  they  ran 

To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he  rose 

Twofooted  at  the  limit  of  his  chain. 

Roaring  to  make  a  third  :  and  how  should  Love, 

Whom  the  cross-lightnings  of  four  chance-met  eyes 


\ 


68  atlmer's  field. 

Flash  into  fiery  life  from  nothing,  follow 
Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn  ? 
Seldom,  but  when  he  does,  Master  of  all. 

So  these  young  hearts  not  knowing  that  they  loved, 
Not  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a  bar 
Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken  ring 
Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 
"Wander'd  at  will,  but  oft  accompanied 
By  Averill :  his,  a  brother's  love,  that  hung 
With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o'er  her  peace, 
Might  have  been  other,  save  for  Leolin's  — 
Who  knows  ?  but  so  they  wander'd,  hour  by  hour 
Gathered  the  blossom  that  rebloom'd,  and  drank 
The  magic  cup  that  fill'd  itself  anew. 

A  whisper  half  reveal'd  her  to  herself. 
For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the  brook 
Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a  silence,  ran 
By  sallowy  rims,  arose  the  laborers'  homes, 


atliier's  field.  69 

A  frequent  haunt  of  Edith,  on  low  knolls 

That  dimpling  died  into  each  other,  huts 

At  random  scatter'd,  each  a  nest  in  bloom. 

Her  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had  wrought 

About  them  :  here  was  one  that,  summer-blanch'd, 

Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  traveller's-joy 

Tn  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-clad ;  and  here 

The  warm-blue  breathings  of  a  hidden  hearth 

Broke  from  a  bower  of  vine  and  honeysuckle : 

One  look'd  all  rosetree,  and  another  wore 

A  close-set  robe  of  jasmine  sown  with  stars; 

This  had  a  rosy  sea  of  gillyflowers 

About  it ;  this,  a  milky-way  on  earth. 

Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer's  heavens, 

A  lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors ; 

One,  almost  to  the  martin-haunted  eaves 

A  summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhocks ; 

Each,  its  own  charm ;  and  Edith's  everywhere ; 

And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him, 

He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  her  poor : 


70  atlmer's  field. 

For  she  —  so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving, 
Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal  hand 
Rose  from  the  clay  it  woi-k'd  in  as  she  past, 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  passing  by, 
Nor  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a  height 
That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a  voice 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 
A  splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor  roofs 
Revered  as  theirs,  but  kindlier  than  themselves 
To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy,  —  was  adored  ; 
He,  loved  for  her  and  for  himself.     A  grasp 
Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of  the  heart, 
A  childly  way  with  children,  and  a  laugh 
Kinging  like  proven  golden  coinage  true, 
Were  no  false  passport  to  that  easy  realm, 
"Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side  the  girl, 
Nursing  a  child,  and  turning  to  the  warmth 
The  tender  pink  five-beaded  baby-soles. 
Heard  the  good  mother  softly  whisper  '  Bless 


atlmer's  field.  71 

God  bless  'em ;  marriages  are  made  in  Heaven.' 

A  flash  of  semi-jealousy  dear'd  it  to  her. 
My  Lady's  Indian  kinsman  unannounced 
With  half  a  score  of  oj^arthy  faces  came. 
His  own,  tho'  keen  and  bold  and  soldierly, 
Sear'd  by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not  fair ; 
Fairer  his  talk,  a  tongue  that  ruled  the  hour, 
Tho'  seeming  boastful :  so  when  first  he  dash'd 
Into  the  chronicle  of  a  deedful  day. 
Sir  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 
Of  patron  *  Good !  my  lady's  kinsman !  good ! ' 
My  lady  with  her  fingers  interlock'd, 
And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 
Call'd  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 
To  listen:  unawares  they  flitted  off". 
Busying  themselves  about  the  flowerage 
Tliat  stood  from  out  a  stiff  brocade  in  which, 
The  meteor  of  a  splendid  season,  she. 
Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago. 


72  AYLMER'ri    FIELD. 

Stept  thro'  the  stately  minuet  of  those  days  : 
But  Edith's  eager  fancy  hurried  with  him 
Snatch'd  thro'  the  perilous  passes  of  his  life : 
Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye 
Hated  him  with  a  momentary  hate. 
Wife-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was  he  : 
I  know  not,  for  he  spoke  not,  only  shower'd 
His  oriental  gifts  on  everyone 
And  most  on  Edith :  like  a  storm  he  came, 
And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a  storm  he  went. 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
He  flow'd  and  ebb'd  uncertain,  to  return 
When  others  had  been  tested)  there  was  one, 
A  dagger,  in  rich  sheath  with  jewels  on  it 
Sprinkled  about  m  gold  that  branch'd  itself 
Fiue  as  ice-ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a  breath.     I  know  not  whence  at  first, 
Nor  of  what  race,  the  work  ;  but  as  he  told 
The  story,  storming  a  hUl-fort  of  thieves 


atlmer's  field.  73 

He  got  it ;  for  their  captain  after  fight, 

His  comrades  having  fought  their  last  below, 

Was  climbing  up  the  valley ;  at  whom  he  shot : 

Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which  he  clung 

Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet. 

This  dagger  with  him,  which  when  now  admired 

By  Edith  whom  his  pleasure  was  to  piease. 

At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to  her. 

And  Leolin,  coming  after  he  was  gone, 
Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly : 
And  when  she  show'd  the  wealthy  scabbard,  saying 

*  Look  what  a  lovely  piece  of  workmanship ! ' 
Slight  was  his  answer  *  Well  —  I  care  not  for  it : ' 
Then  playing  with  the  blade  he  prick'd  his  hand, 

*  A  gracious  gift  to  give  a  lady,  this  !  * 

*  But  would  it  be  more  gracious '  ask'd  the  girl 

*  Were  I  to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 

That  is  no  lady  ? '     *  Gracious  ?     No '  said  he. 

*  Me  ?  —  but  I  cared  not  for  it     O  pardon  me, 


74  *    aylmer's  field. 

I  seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself/ 

*  Take  it '  she  added  sweetly  '  tho'  his  gift ;  • 
For  I  am  more  ungracious  ev'n  than  you, 

I  care  not  for  it  either ; '  and  he  said 

*  Why  then  I  love  it : '  but  Sir  Aylmer  past, 
And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing  he  heard. 

The  next  day  came  a  neighbor.     Blues  and  reds 
They  talked  of :  blues  were  sure  of  it,  he  thought : 
Then  of  the  latest  fox  —  where  started  —  kill'd 
In  such  a  bottom  :  *  Peter  had  the  brush. 
My  Peter,  first : '  and  did  Sir  Aylmer  know 
That  great  pock-pitten  fellow  had  been  caught  ? 
Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  hand  to  hand. 
And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance  of  it 
Between  his  palms  a  moment  up  and  down  — 
'  The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were  warm  upon  him ; 
We  have  him  now : '  and  had  Sir  Aylmer  heard  — 
Nay,  but  he  must  —  the  land  was  ringing  of  it  — 
This  blacksmith-border  marriage  —  one  they  knew  — 


atlmer's  field.   "  75 

Raw  from  the  nursery  —  who  could  trust  a  child  ? 

That  cursed  France  with  her  egalities ! 

And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially 

With  nearing  chair  and  lower'd  accent)  think  — 

For  people  talk'd  —  that  it  was  wholly  wise 

To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill  walk 

So  freely  with  his  daughter  ?  people  talk'd  — 

The  boy  might  get  a  notion  into  him ; 

The  girl  might  be  entangled  ere  she  knew. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  slowly  stiffening  spoke  : 

*  The  girl  and  boy,  Sir,  know  their  differences  !  * 

*  Good  *  said  his  friend  '  but  watch  !  *  and  he  *  enough, 
More  than  enough,  Sir !     I  can  guard  my  own.* 
They  parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  watch*d. 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  the  house 
Had  fallen  first,  was  Edith  that  same  night ; 
Pale  as  the  Jephtha's  daughter,  a  rough  piece 
Of  early  rigid  color,  under  which 
Withdrawing  by  the  counter  door  to  that 


76  aylmer's  field. 

Which  Leolin  'bpen'd,  she  cast  back  upon  him 
A  piteous  glance,  and  vanish'd.     He,  as  one 
Caught  in  a  burst  of  unexpected  storm, 
And  pelted  with  outrageous  epithets, 
Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the  House 
On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant ;  her, 
Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a  featherfan, 
Him  glaring,  by  his  own  stale  devil  spurr'd, 
And,  like  a  beast  hard-ridden,  breathing  hard. 

*  Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base, 
Presumptuous  !  trusted  as  he  was  with  her, 
The  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth,  their  lands, 
The  last  remaining  pillar  of  their  house, 

The  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient  name. 

Their  child.*    *  Our  child ! '   *  Our  heiress ! '    '  Ours  !  *  for 

still, 
Like  echoes  from  beyond  a  hollow,  came 
Her  sicklier  iteration.     Last  he  said 

*  Boy,  mark  me !  for  your  fortunes  are  to  make. 
I  swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out  of  mine. 


ailmer's  field.  77 

Now  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised  on  her, 

Perplext  her,  made  her  half  forget  herself, 

Swerve  from  her  duty  to  herself  and  us  — 

Things  in  an  Aylmer  deem'd  impossible. 

Far  as  we  track  ourselves  —  I  say  that  this,  — 

Else  I  withdraw  favor  and  countenance 

From  you  and  yours  for  ever  —  shall  you  do. 

Sir,  when  you  see  her  —  but  you-shall  not  see  her  — 

No,  you  shall  write,  and  not  to  her,  but  me  : 

And  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken  with  me, 

And  after  look'd  into  yourself,  you  find 

That  you  meant  nothing  —  as  indeed  you  know 

That  you  meant  nothing.     Such  a  match  as  this  I 

Impossible,  prodigious ! '     These  were  words, 

As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself, 

Arguing  boundless  forbearance :  after  which, 

And  Leolin's  horror-stricken  answer,  *  I 

So  foul  a  traitor  to  myself  and  her, 

Never  oh  n^ver,'  for  about  as  long 

As  the  wind-hover  hangs  in  balance,  paused 


78  atlmer's  field. 

Sir  Aylmer  reddening  from  the  storm  within, 

Then  broke  all  bonds  of  courtesy,  and  crying 

*  Boy,  should  I  find  you  by  my  doors  again. 

My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like  a  dog ; 

Hence  !  *  with  a  sudden  execration  drove 

The  footstool  from  before  him,  and  arose  ; 

So,  stammering  *  scoundrel '  out  of  teeth  that  ground 

As  in  a  dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin  still 

Retreated  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old  man 

Follow'd,  and  under  his  own  lintel  stood 

Storming  with  Hfted  hands,  a  hoary  face 

Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth,  but  now, 

Beneath  a  pale  and  unimpassion'd  moon, 

Vext  with  unworthy  madness,  and  deform'd. 

Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful  eye 
That  watch'd  him,  till  he  heard  the  ponderous  door 
Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro'  the  land. 
Went  Leolin  ;  then,  his  passions  all  in  flood 
And  masters  of  his  motion,  furiously 


atlmer's  field.  79 

Down  thro'  the  bright  lawns  to  his  brother's  ran, 
And  foam'd  away  his  heart  at  Averill's  ear ; 
Whom  Averill  solaced  as  he  might,  amazed  : 
The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  father's,  friend : 
He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen  it  long ; 
He  must  have  known,  himself  had  known  :  besides, 
He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter  forth 
Here  in  the  woman-markets  of  the  west, 
Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves  be  sold. 
Some  one,  he  thought,  had  slander'd  Leolin  to  him. 
*  Brother,  for  I  have  loved  you  more  as  son 
Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you  :  I  myself — 
What  is  their  pretty  saying  ?  jilted,  is  it  ? 
Jilted  I  was  :  I  say  it  for  your  peace. 
Pain'd,  and,  as  bearing  in  myself  the  shame 
The  woman  should  have  borne,  humiliated, 
I  lived  for  years  a  stunted  sunless  life  ;  ^ 

Till  after  our  good  parents  past  away 
Watching  your  growth,  I  seem'd  again  to  grow. 
Leolin,  I  almost  sin  in  envying  you  : 


80  -  aylmer's  field. 

The  very  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 

Loves  you  :  I  know  her  :  the  worst  thought  she  has 

Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand : 

She  must  prove  true :  for,  brother,  where  two  fight 

The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love  are  strength, 

And  you  are  happy  :  let  her  parents  be.* 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  upon  them  — 
Insolent,  brainless,  heartless  !  heiress,  wealth, 
Their  wealth,  their  heiress  !  wealth  enough  was  theirs 
For  twenty  matches.     Were  he  lord  of  this. 
Why  twenty  boys  and  girls  should  marry  on  it. 
And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and  himself    ' 
Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.     He  believed 
This  filthy  marriage-hindering  Mammon  made 
The  harlot  of  the  cities  :  nature  crost 
Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 
That  saturate  soul  with  body.     Name,  too  I  name, 
Their  ancient  name  !  they  might  be  proud ;  its  worth 
Was  being  Edith's.     Ah  how  pale  she  had  look'd 


aylmer's  field.  81 

Darling,  to-night !  they  must  have  rated  her 
Beyond  all  tolerance.     These  old  pheasant-lords, 
These  partridge-breeders  of  a  thousand  years, 
Who  had  mildew'd  in  their  thousands,  doing  nothing 
Since  Egbert  —  why,  the  greater  their  disgrace  I 
Fall  back  upon  a  name  !  rest,  rot  in  that  I 
Not  keep  it  noble,  make  it  nobler  ?  fools, 
"With  such  a  vantage-ground  for  nobleness  ! 
He  had  known  a  man,  a  quintessence  of  man, 
The  life^  of  aU  —  who  madly  loved  —  and  he, 
Thwarted  by  one  of  these  old  father-fools. 
Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an  end. 
He  would  not  do  it !  her  sweet  face  and  faith 
Held  him  from  that :  but  he  had  powers,  he  kn6w  it : 
Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  make  a  name, 
Name,  fortune  too :  the  world  should  ring  of  him 
To  shame  these  mouldy  Aylmers  in  their  graves : 
Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  would  he  be  — 
'  0  brother,  I  am  grieved  to  learn  your  grief — 
Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my  say.' 

4* 


82  aylmer's  field. 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own  excess, 
And  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own, 
He  laugh'd ;  and  then  was  mute  ;  but  presently 
Wept  like  a  storm  :  and  honest  Averill  seeing 
How  low  his  brother's  mood  had  fallen,  fetch'd 
His  richest  beeswing  from  a  binn  reserved 
For  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red,  and  told 
The  vintage  —  when  this  Aylmer  came  of  age  — 
Then  drank  and  past  it ;  till  at  length  the  two, 
Tho*  Leolin  flamed  and  fell  again,  agreed 
That  much  allowance  must  be  made  for  men. 
After  an  angry  dream  this  kindlier  glow 
Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose  held. 

Yet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers  met, 
A  perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 
That  darkened  all  the  northward  of  her  Hall. 
Him,  to  her  meek  and  modest  bosom  prest 
In  agony,  she  promised  that  no  force, 
Persuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alter  her  : 


a.tlmer's  field.  83 

He,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  go, 

Labor  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 

In  such  a  sunlight  of  prosperity 

He  should  not  be  rejected.     <  Write  to  me  ! 

They  loved  me,  and  because  I  love  their  child 

They  hate  me  :  there  is  war  between  us,  dear, 

Which  breaks  all  bonds  but  ours ;  we  must  remain 

Sacred  to  one  another.*     So  they  talk'd. 

Poor  children,  for  their  comfort :  the  wind  blew ; 

The  rain  of  heaven,  and  their  own  bitter  tears. 

Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven,  mixt 

Upon  their  faces,  as  they  kiss'd  each  other 

In  darkness,  and  above  them  roar'd  the  pine. 

So  Leolin  went ;  and  as  we  task  ourselves 
To  learn  a  language  known  but  smatteringly 
In  phrases  here  and  there  at  random,  toil'd 
Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our  law, 
That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent. 
That  wilderness  of  single  instances, 


84  atlmer's  field. 

Thro'  which  a  few,  by  wit  or  fortune  led, 

May  beat  a  pathway  out  to  wealth  and  fame. 

The  jests,  that  flash'd  about  the  pleader's  room. 

Lightning  of  the  hour,  the  pun,  the  scurrilous  tale, — 

Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decads  deep 

In  other  scandals  that  ^ave  lived  and  died, 

And  left  the  living  scandal  that  shall  die  — 

Were  dead  to  him  already ;  bent  as  he  was 

To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong  in  hopes, 

And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he. 

Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine  and  exercise, 

Except  when  for  a  breathing-while  at  eve, 

Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  hour,  he  ran 

Beside  the  river-bank  :  and  then  indeed 

Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands  of  power 

Were  bloodier,  and  the  according  hearts  of  men 

Seem'd  harder  too ;  but  the  soft  river-breeze, 

Which  fann'd  the  gardens  of  that  rival  rose 

Yet  fragrant  in  a  heart  remembering 

His  former  talks  with  Edith,  on  him  breathed 


atlmeb's  field.  80 

Far  purelier  in  his  rushings  to  and  fro, 
After  his  books,  to  flush  his  blood  with  air, 
Then  to  his  books  again.    My  lady's  cousin, 
Half-sickening  of  his  pension'd  aflemoon, 
Drove  in  upon  the  student  once  or  twice. 
Ran  a  Malayan  muck  against  the  times. 
Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all  mankind, 
Answer'd  all  queries  touching  those  at  home 
"With  a  heaved  shoulder  and  a  saucy  smile, 
And  fain  had  haled  him  out  into  the  world. 
And  air'd  him  there :  his  nearer  friend  would  say 
*  Screw  not  the  chord  too  sharply  lest  it  snap.* 
Then  left  alone  he  pluck'd  her  dagger  forth 
From  where  his  worldless  heart  had  kept  it  warm, 
Kissing  his  vows  upon  it  like  a  knight. 
And  wrinkled  benchers  often  talk'd  of  him 
Approvingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise : 
For  heart,  I  think,  help'd  head :  her  letters  too, 
Tho*  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like  broken  music,  written  as  she  found 


86  aylmer's  field. 

Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly  watch'd, 
Charm'd  him  thro'  every  labyrinth  till  he  saw 
An  end,  a  hope,  a  light  breaking  upon  him. 

But  they  that  cast  her  spirit  into  flesh, 
Her  worldly-wise  begetters,  plagued  themselves 
To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her  good. 
Whatever  eldest-born  of  rank  or  wealth 
Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him  they  lured 
Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the  baits 
Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to  woo. 
So  month  by  month  the  noise  aboutstheir  doors, 
And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  banquets,  made 
The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent  hare 
Falter  before  he  took  it.     All  in  vain. 
Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  return'd 
Leolin's  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 
Slipt  o'er  those  lazy  limits  down  the  wind 
With  rumor,  and  became  in  other  fields 


atlmer's  field.  87 

A  mockery  to  the  yeomen  over  ale, 
And  laughter  to  their  lords:  but  those  at  home, 
As  hunters  round  a  hunted  creature  draw 
The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward  the  death, 
NaiTOw'd  her  goings  out  and  comings  in ; 
Forbad  her  first  the  house  of  Averill, 
Then  closed  her  access  to  the  wealthier  farms, 
Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  the  poor 
They  barr'd  her :  yet  she  bore  it :  yet  her  cheek 
Kept  color :  wondrous !  but,  O  mystery ! 
"What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that  old  oak. 
So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a  part 
Falling  had  let  appear  the  brand  of  John  — 
Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a  tree,  but  now 
The  broken  base  of  a  black  tower,  a  cave 
Of  touchwood,  with  a  single  flourishing  spray. 
There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 
Raking  in  that  millennial  touchwood-dust 
Found  for  himself  a  bitter  treasure-trove ; 
Burst  his  own  wyvern  on  the  seal,  and  read 


88  atlmer's  field. 

Writhing  a  letter  from  his  child,  for  which 

Came  at  the  moment  Leolin*s  emissary, 

A  crippled  lad,  and  coming  tum'd  to  fly, 

But  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and  halter  gave 

To  him  that  fluster'd  his  poor  parish  wits 

The  letter  which  he  brought,  and  swore  besides 

To  play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 

Nor  let  them  know  themselves  betray'd,  and  then. 

Soul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him,  went 

Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miserable. . 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a  despot  dream 
Panting  he  woke,  and  oft  as  early  as  dawn 
Aroused  the  black  republic  on  his  elms, 
Sweeping  the  frothfly  from  the  fescue,  brush'd 
Thro'  the  dim  meadow  toward  his  treasure-trove, 
Seized  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady,  who  made 
A  downward  crescent  of  her  minion  mouth, 
Listless  in  all  despondence,  read ;  and  tore, 
As  If  the  living  passion  symbol'd  there 


atlmer's  field.  8^ 

"Were  living  nerves  to  feel  the  rent ;  and  burnt, 
Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self  defied, 
Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks  of  scorh 
In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 
Scattered  all  over  the  vocabulary 
Of  such  a  love  as  like  a  chidden  babe. 
After  much  wailing,  hush'd  itself  at  last 
Hopeless  of  answer :  then  tho'  Averill  wrote 
And  bad  him  with  good  heart  sustain  himself— 
All  would  be  Veil  —  the  lover  heeded  not, 
But  passionately  restless  came  and  went. 
And  rustling  once  at  night  about  the  place, 
There  by  a  keeper  shot  at,  slightly  hurt, 
Raging  returned  :  nor  was  it  well  for  her 
Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of  pines, 
Watch'd  even  there ;  and  one  was  set  to  watch 
The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aylmer  watch'd  them  all. 
Yet  bitterer  from  his  readings :  once  indeed, 
Warm'd  with  his  wines,  or  taking  pride  in  her. 
She  look'd  so  sweet,  he  kiss'd  her  tenderly 


90  aylmer's  field. 

Not  knowing  what  possess'd  him :  that  one  kiss 

Was  Leolin's  one  strong  rival  upon  earth ; 

Seconded,  for  my  lady  follow'd  suit, 

Seem'd  hope's  returning  rose :  and  then  ensued 

A  Martin's  summer  of  his  faded  love. 

Or  ordeal  by  kindness ;  after  this 

He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a  sneer ; 

The  mother  flow'd  in  shallower  acrimonies : 

Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly  word : 

So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from  all 

Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 

"With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly  lost 

Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on  life. 

Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round  to  spy 

The  weakness  of  a  people  or  a  house, 

Like  flies  that  haunt  a  wound,  or  deer,  or  men. 

Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the  hurt  — 

Save  Christ  as  we  believe  him  —  found  the  girl 

And  flung  her  down  upon  a  couch  of  fire. 

Where  careless  of  the  household  faces  near, 


ATLMER*S   FIELD.  91 

And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leolin, 

She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer,  past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light :  may  soul  to  soul 

Strike  thro*  a  finer  element  of  her  own  ? 

So,  —  from  afar,  —  touch  as  at  once  ?  or  why 

That  night,  that  moment,  when  she  named  his  name, 

Did  the  keen  shriek  *  yes  love,  yes  Edith,  yes,' 

Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  chambers  woke. 

And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from  sleep. 

With  a  weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and  trembling. 

His  hair  as  it  were  crackling  into  flames. 

His  body  half  flung  forward  in  pursuit. 

And  his  long  arms  stretch'd  as  to  grasp  a  flyer : 

Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made  the  cry ; 

And  being  much  befool'd  and  idioted 

I 
By  the  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 

As  into  sleep  again.     The  second  day. 

My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 

A  breaker  of  the  bitter  news  from  home, 


92  aylmek's  field. 

Found  a  dead  man,  a  letter  edged  with  death 
Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  himself 
Gave  Edith,  reddeh'd  with  no  bandit's  blood  : 
*  From  Edith  *  was  engraven  on  the  blade. 

Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upon  his  death. 

And  when  he  came  again,  his  flock  believed  — 

Beholding  how  the  years  which  are  not  Time's 

Had  blasted  him  —  that  many  thousand  days 

"Were  dipt  by  horror  from  his  term  of  life. 

Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  second  death 

Scarce  touch'd  her  thro'  that  nearness  of  the  first, 

And  being  used  to  find  her  pastor  texts. 

Sent  to  the  harrow'd  brother,  praying  him 

To  speak  before  the  people  of  her  child, 

And  fixt  the  Sabbath.     Darkly  that  day  rose  : 

i 
Autumn's  mock  sunshine  of  the  faded  woods 

Was  all  the  life  of  it ;  for  hard  on  these, 

A  breathless  burthen  of  low-folded  heavens 

Stifled  and  chill'd  at  once  :  but  every  roof 


atlmer's  field.  93 

Sent  out  a  listener :  many  too  had  known 
Edith  among  the  hamlets  round,  and  since 
The  parents'  harshness  and  the  hapless  loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  murmur'd,  left 
Tlieir  own  gray  tower,  or  plain-faced  tabernacle. 
To  hear  him  ;  all  in  mourning  these,  and  those 
With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon,  glove 
Or  kerchief;  while  the  church,  —  one  night,  except 
For  greenish  glimmerings  thro'  the  lancets,  —  made 
Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  him,  who  tower'd 
Above  them,  with  his  hopes  in  either  grave. 

Long  o'er  his  bent  brows  linger'd  Ayerill, 
His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from  which 
Livid  he  pluck'd  it  forth,  and  labor'd  thro' 
His  brief  prayer-prelude,  gave  the  verse  *  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ! ' 
But  lapsed  into  so  long  a  pause  again 
As  half  amazed  half  frighted  all  his  flock : 
Then  from  his  height  and  loneliness  of  grief 


94  aylmer's  field. 

Bore  down  in  flood,  and  dash'd  his  angry  heart 
Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became  one  sea, 
Which  rolling  o'er  the  palaces  of  the  proud, 
And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  living  God  — 
Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a  purer  world  — 
When    since     had     flood,    fire,    earthquake,     thunder, 

wrought 
Such  waste  and  havock  as  the  idolatries, 
Wliich  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 
Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven  of  Heavens, 
And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  as  the  Highest  ? 
'  Gash  thyself,  priest,  and  honor  thy  brute  Baal, 
And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself, 
For  with  thy  worst  self  hast  thou  clothed  thy  God.* 
Then  came  a  Lord  in  no  wise  like  to  Baiil. 
The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.     Surely  now 
The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 
Crown  thyself,  worm,  and  worship  thine  own  lusts  !  — 


I 

atlmer's  field.  96 


No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 

Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel  to  — 

Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 

And  princely  halls,  and  farms,  and  flowing  lawns, 

And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily  grow. 

And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heraldries. 

In  such  a  shape  dost  thou  behold  thy  God. 

Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  him  ;  for  thine 

Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a  hair 

Rufiled  upon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 

The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 

Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot  die  ; 

And  tho'  thou  numbereat  with  the  followers 

Of  One  who  cried  *  leave  all  and  follow  me.* 

Thee  therefore  with  His  light  about  thy  feet, 

Thee  with  His  message  ringing  in  thine  ears, 

Tliee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord  from  Heaven. 

Born  of  a  village  girl,  carpenter's  son, 

Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the  Migkty  God, 

Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the  two ; 


96  AYLMER'S    FIELD, 

Crueller :  as  not  passing  thro'  the  fire 

Bodies,  but  souls  — thy  children's  —  thro'  the  smoke, 

The  bligtt  of  low  desires  —  darkening  thine  own 

To  thine  own  likeness ;  or  if  one  of  these, 

Thy  better  bom  unhappily  from  thee, 

Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight  and  fair  — 

Friends,  I  was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a  one 

By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sorrow  for  her  — 

Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  weU, 

Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of  corn, 

Fair  as  the  Angel  that  said  <  hail '  she  seem'd, 

Who  entering  fiU'd  the  house  with  sudden  light. 

For  so  mine  own  was  brighten'd :  where  indeed 

The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of  Heaven 

Dawn'd  sometime  thro*  the  doorway  ?  whose  the  babe 

Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 

Warm'd  at  her  bosom  ?     The  poor  child  of  shame. 

The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared  for,  leapt 

To  greet  her,  wasting  his  forgotten  heart. 

As  with  the  mother  he  had  never  known, 


atlmer's  field.  97 

In  gambols  ;  for  her  fresh  and  innocent  eyes 

Had  such  a  star  of  morning  in  their  blue, 

That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 

Broke  into  nature's  music  when  they  saw  her. 

Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysterious  way 

Thro'  the  seal'd  ear  to  which  a  louder  one 

Was  aU  but  silence  —  free  of  alms  her  hand  — 

The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage-walls  with  flowers 

Has  often  toil'd  to  clothe  your  little  ones  ; 

How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man's  brow 

Cool'd  it,  or  laid  his  feverous  pillow  smooth  ! 

Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared  it  not  ? 

One  burthen  and  she  would  not  lighten  it  ? 

One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe  ? 

Or  when  some  heat  of  diflference  sparkled  out, 

How  sweetly  would  she  glide  between  your  wraths, 

And  steal  you  from  each  other !  for  she  walk'd 

Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord  of  love. 

Who  still'd  the  rolling  wave  of  Galilee  ! 

And  one  —  of  him  I  was  not  bid  to  speak  — 

5  o 


98  aylmer's  field. 

Was  always  with  her,  whom  you  also  knew. 
Him  too  you  loved,  for  he  was  worthy  love. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first ; 
They  might  have  been  together  till  the  last. 
Friends,  this  frail  bark  of  ours,  when  sorely  tried, 
May  wreck  itself  without  the  pilot's  guilt. 
Without  the  captain's  knowledge  :  hope  with  me. 
Whose  shame  is  that,  if  he  went  hence  with  shame  ? 
Nor  mine  the  fault,  if  losing  both  of  these 
I  cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow'd  walls, 
*'  My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate.'* 

While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers  wept ;  but  some, 
Sons  of  the  glebe,  with  other  frowns  than  those 
That  knit  themselves  for  summer  shadow,  scowl'd 
At  their  great  lord.     He,  when  it  seem'd  he  saw 
No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar,  but  fork'd 
Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming  at  his  head. 
Sat  anger-charm'd  from  sorrow,  soldierlike, 
Erect :  but  when  the  preacher's  cadence  flow'd 


ATLMER*S    FEELD.  99 

Softening  tliro'  all  the  gentle  attributes 
Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch'd  his  face. 
Paled  at  a  sudden  twitch  of  his  iron  mouth ; 
And  '  O  pray  God  that  he  hold  up '  she  thought 
*  Or  surely  I  shall  shame  myself  and  him.* 

*  Nor  yours  the  blame  —  for  who  beside  your  hearths 
Can  take  her  place  —  if  echoing  me  you  cry 
"  Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate  ?  " 
But  thou,  O  thou  tliat  killest,  hadst  thou  known, 
O  thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  understood 
The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace  and  ours ! 
Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that  calls 
Doom  upon  kings,  or  in  the  waste  *  Eepent  *  ? 
Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow  way, 
Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in  the  broad 
Cries  *  come  up  hither,*  as  a  prophet  to  us  ? 
Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint  and  rock  ? 
Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify  — 
No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  fire  ? 


100  atlmer's  field. 

Yes,  as  your  moanings  witness,  and  myself 

Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my  loss. 

Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past  your  prayers. 

Not  past  the  living  fount  of  pity  in  Heaven. 

But  I  that  thought  myself  long-suffering,  meek. 

Exceeding  "  poor  in  spirit "  —  how  the  words 

Have  twisted  back  upon  themselves,  and  mean 

Vileness,  we  are  grown  so  proud  —  I  wish'd  my  voice 

A  rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 

To  blow  these  sacrifices  thro'  the  world  — 

Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 

To  inflame  the  tribes  :  but  there  —  out  yonder  —  earth 

Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell  —  0  there 

The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry  — 

The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall  so  fast, 

They  ding  together  in  the  ghastly  sack  — 

The  land  all  shambles  —  naked  marriages 

Flash  from  the  bridge,  and  ever-murder'd  France, 

By  shores  that  darken  with  the  gathering  wolf, 

Runs  in  a  river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 


atlmer's  field.  101 

Is  this  a  time  to  madden  madness  then  ? 

Was  this  a  time  for  these  to  flamit  their  pride  ? 

May  Pharaoh's  darkness,  folds  as  dense  as  those 

Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  people's  eyes 

Ere  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great  sin  from  all : 

Doubtless  our  narrow  world  must  canvass  it : 

O  rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them, 

Who  thro'  their  own  desire  accomplish'd  bring 

Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave  — 

Who  broke  the  bond  which  they  desired  to  break, 

Which  else  had  link'd  their  race  with  times  to  come  — - 

Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her  purity. 

Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daughter's  good  — 

Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they  did,  but  sat 

Ignorant,  devising  their  own  daughter  s  death  ! 

May  not  that  earthly  chastisement  suffice  ? 

Have  not  our  love  and  reverence  left  them  bare  ? 

Will  not  another  take  their  heritage  ? 

Will  there  be  children's  laughter  in  their  hall 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  or  one  stone 


102  aylmer's  field. 

Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a  light  thing 

That  I  their  guest,  their  host,  their  ancient  friend, 

I  made  by  these  the  last  of  all  my  race 

Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as  cried 

Christ  ere  His  agony  to  those  that  swore 

Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and  made 

Their  own  traditions  God,  and  slew  the  Lord, 

And  left  their  memories  a  world's  curse  —  "  Behold, 

Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ?  "  * 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook'd  no  more  : 
Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorselessly, 
Her  crampt-up  sorrow  paiti'd  her,  and  a  sense 
Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 
Then  their  eyes  vext  her ;  for  on  entering 
He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  their  seat  aside  — 
Black  velvet  of  the  costliest  —  she  herself 
Had  seen  to  that :  fain  had  she  closed  them  now. 
Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near*d 
Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  but  when  she  laid, 


atlmer's  field.  103 

"Wifelike,  her  baud  in  one  of  his,  he  veil'd 
His  face  with  thiS  other,  and  at  once,  as  falls 
A  creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken,  fell 
The  woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and  swoon'd. 
Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the  nave 
Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  meagre  face 
Seam'd  with  the  shallow  cares  of  fifty  years : 
And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape  round 
Ev'n  to  its  last  horizon,  and  of  all 
Who  peer'd  at  him  so  keenly,  foUow'd  out 
Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 
Reel'd,  as  a  footsore  ox  in  crowded  ways 
Stumbling  across  the  market  to  his  death, 
Unpitiod  ;  for  he  groped  as  blind,  and  seem*d 
Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the  pews 
And  oaken  finials  till  he  touch'd  the  door ; 
Yet  to  the  lychgate,  where  his  chariot  stood, 
Strode  from  the  porch,  tall  and  erect  again. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the  gate 


104  atlmer's  field. 

Save  under  pall  with  bearers.^    In  one  month, 
Thro'  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier  hours, 
The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her  child ; 
And  when  he  felt  the  silence  of  his  house 
About  him,  and  the  change  and  not  the  change, 
And  those  fixt  eyes  of  painted  ancestors 
Staring  for  ever  from  their  gilded  walls 
On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own  head 
Began  to  droop,  to  fall ;  the  man  became 
Imbecile ;  his  one  word  was  *  desolate ' ; 
Dead  for  two  years  before  his  death  was  he ; 
But  when  the  second  Christmas  came,  escaped 
His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he  felt, 
To  find  a  deeper  in  the  narrow  gloom 
By  wife  and  child ;  nor  wanted  at  his  end 
The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 
At  golden  thresholds ;  nor  from  tender  hearts, 
And  those  who  sorrow'd  o'er  a  vanish'd  race, 
Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant's  grave. 
Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken  down, 


ATLMER*S    FIELD.  105 

And  the  broad  woodland  parcell'd  into  farms  ; 
And  where  the  two  contrived  their  daughter's  good, 
Lies  the  hawk's  cast,  the  mole  has  made  his  run, 
The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plaintain  bores, 
The  rabbit  fondles  his  own  harmless  face. 
The  slow-worm  creeps,  and  the  thin  weasel  there 
Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open  field. 


»• 


SEA     DREAMS 


SEA    DREAMS 


A  CITY  derk,  but  gently  bom  and  bred  ; 
His  wife,  an  unknown  artist's  orphan  child  — 
One  babe  was  theirs,  a  Margaret,  three  years  old : 
They,  thinking  that  her  clear  germander  eye 
Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city-gloom, 
Came,  with  a  month's  leave  given  them,  to  the  sea 
For  which  his  gains  were  dock'd,  however  small : 
Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his  work  ;  besides. 
Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for  the  man 
Had  risk'd  his  little)  like  the  little  thrift. 
Trembled  in  perilous  places  o'er  a  deep  : 
And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 


110  SEA   DREAMS. 

Would  darken,  as  lie  cursed  his  credulousness, 

And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which  lured  him,  rogue, 

To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peruvian  mine. 

Now  seaward-bound  for  health  they  gain'd  a  coast, 

All  sand  and  cliff  and  deep-inrunning  cave, 

At  close  of  day ;  slept,  woke,  and  went  the  next, 

The  Sabbath,  pious  variers  from  the  ehurch, 

To  chapel ;  where  a  heated  pulpiteer, 

Not  preaching  simple  Christ  to  simple  men. 

Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  fulminated 

Against  the  scarlet  woman  and  her  creed : 

For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms,  and  shrieked 

*  Thus,  thus  with  violence,'  ev'n  as  if  he  held 

The  Apocalyptic  millstone,  and  himself 

Were  that  great  Angel ;  *  Thus  with  violence 

Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea ; 

Then  comes  the  close.'    The  gentle-hearted  wife 

Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a  world  ;  ^ 

He  at  his  own :  but  when  the  wordy  storm 

Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced  the  shore, 


SEA    DREAMS.  Ill 

Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing  caves, 
Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce  believed 
(The  sootflake  of  so  many  a  summer  still 
Gung  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw,  the  sea. 
So  now  on  sand  they  walk'd,  and  now  on  cliff. 
Lingering  about  the  thymy  promontories, 
Till  all  the  sails  were  darken'd  in  the  west. 
And  rosed  in  the  east :  then  homeward  and  to  bed  : 
Where  she,  who  kept  a  tender  Christian  hope 
Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  stUl  to  that 
Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  night, 
*  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your  wrath,* 
Said,  *  Love,  forgive  him :  *  but  he  did  not  speak ; 
And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the  wife. 
Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died  for  all. 
And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men. 
And  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their  feuda. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a  full  tide 
Rose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the  foremost  rocks 


112  SEA   DREAMS. 

Touching,  upjetted  in  spirts  of  wild  sea-smoke, 
And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam,  and  fell 
In  vast  searcataracts  —  ever  and  anon 
Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within  the  cliffs 
Heard  thro'  the  living  roar.     At  this  the  babe. 
Their  Margaret  ctadled  near  them,  wail'd  and  woke 
The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly  cried, 
*  A  wreck,  a  wreck  I '  then  tum'd,  and  groaning  said, 

*  Forgive  !     How  many  will  say,  "  forgive,"  and  find 
A  sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 
To  hate  a  little  longer  !     No  ;  the  sin 
That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well  forgive, 
Hypocrisy,  I  saw  it  in  him  at  once. 
Is  it  so  true  that  second  thoughts  are  best  ? 
Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a  riper  first  ? 
Too  ripe,  too  late  !  they  come  too  late  for  use. 
Ah  love,  tJiere  surely  lives  in  man  and  beast 
Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  their  foes : 
And  such  a  sense,  when  first  I  fronted  him, 


SEA   DREAMS.  113 

Said,  "  trust  him  not ; "  but  after,  when  I  came 
To  know  him  more,  I  lost  it,  knew  him  less  ; 
Fought  with  what  seem'd  my  own  uncharity ; 
Sat  at  his  table  ;  drank  his  costly  wines ; 
Made  more  and  more  allowance  for  his  talk ; 
Went  further,  fool  I  and  trusted  him  with  all, 
All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a  dozen  years 
Of  dust  and  deskwork :  there  is  no  such  mine, 
None ;  but  a  gulf  of  ruin,  swallowing  gold. 
Not  making.     Ruin'd  !  ruin'd  !  the  sea  roars 
Ruin  :  a  fearful  night !  * 

*  Not  fearful;  fair,' 
Said  the  good  wife,  *  if  every  star  in  heaven 
Can  make  it  fair :  you  do  but  hear  the  tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams  ? ' 

*  0  yes,*  he  said,  *  I  dream'd 
Of  such  a\tide  swelling  toward  the  land. 
And  I  from  out  the  boundless  outer  deep 


114  SEA    DREAMS. 

Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  entered  one 
Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath  the  cliffs. 
I  thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless  deep 
Bore  through  the  cave,  and  I  was  heaved  upon  it 
In  darkness :  then  I  saw  one  lovely  star 
Larger  and  larger.    "  What  a  world,"  I  thought, 
"  To  live  in  ! "  but  in  moving  on  I  found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave. 
Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream  beyond : 
And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat. 
All  over  earthy,  like  a  piece  of  earth, 
A  pickaxe  in  her  hand :  then  out  I  slipt 
Into  a  land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 
As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird  that  sings : 
And  here  the  night-hght  flickering  in  my  eyes 
Awoke  me.* 

*  That  was  then  your  dream,*  she  said, 
*  Not  sad,  but  sweet.* 


SEA  DREAMS.  115 

*  So  sweet,  I  lay,*  said  he, 
*  And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  up  the  stream 
In  fancy,  till  I  slept  again,  and  pieced 
The  broken  vision ;  for  I  dream'd  that  still 
The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me  on, 
And  that  the  woman  walk'd  upon  the  brink : 
I  wonder'd  at  her  strength,  and  ask'd  her  of  it : 
"  It  came,"  she  said,  "  by  working  in  the  mines : " 
0  then  to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I  thought ; 
And  ask'd ;  but  not  a  word ;  she  shook  her  head. 
And  then  the  motion  of  the  current  ceased. 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder ;  and  we  reach'd 
A  mountain,  like  a  wall  of  burs  and  thorns ; 
But  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the  steep  hill 
Trod  out  a  path :  I  folio w'd ;  and  at  top 
She  pointed  seaward :  there  a  fleet  of  glass. 
That  seem'd  a  fleet  of  jewels  under  me, 
SaiUng  along  before  a  glooidy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thunder,  past 
In  sunshine :  right  across  its  track  there  lay. 


116  SEA  DREAMS. 

Dowp  in  the  water,  a  long  reef  of  gold, 

Or  what  seem'd  gold :  and  I  was  glad  at  first 

To  thmk  that  in  our  often-ransack'd  world 

Still  so  much  gold  was  left ;  and  then  I  fear'd 

Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splinter  on  it. 

And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn  them  off; 

An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 

(I  thought  I  could  have  died  to  save  it)  near'd, 

Touch'd,  clink'd,  and  clash'd,  and  vanish'd,  and  I  woke, 

I  heard  the  clash  so  clearly.    Now  I  see 

My  dream  was  Life ;  the  woman  honest  Work ; 

And  my  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of  glass 

Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold.' 

'  Nay,'  said  the  kindly  wife  to  comfort  him, 
*  You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled  down  and  broke 
The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medicine  in  it ; 
And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and  broke  your  dream : 
A  trifle  makes  a  dream,  a  trifle  breaks.' 


SEA   DREAMS.  117 

*  No  trifle/  groan'd  the  husband ;  *  yesterday 
I  met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and  ask'd 
That  which  I  ask'd  the  woman  in  my  dream. 
Like  her,  he  sh^ok  his  head.     "  Show  me  the  books ! " 
He  dodged  me  with  a  long  and  loose  account. 
"  The  books,  the  books ! "  but  he,  he  could  not  wait, 
Bound  on  a  matter  he  of  life  and  death : 
When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel  seven  and  ten) 
Were  open'd,  I  should  find  he  meant  me  well ; 
And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and  ooze 
All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 
That  makes  the  widow  lean.     "  My  dearest  friend, 
Have  faith,  have  faith  !    We  live  by  faith,"  said  he ; 
"  And  all  things  work  together  for  the  good 
Of  those  "  —  it  makes  me  sick  to  quote  him  —  last 
Gript  my  hand  hard,  and  with  God-bless-you  went. 
I  stood  like  one  that  had  received  a  blow: 
I  found  a  hard  friend  in  his  loose  accounts, 
A  loose  one  in  the  hard  grip  of  his  hand, 
A  curse  in  his  God-bless-you :  then  my  eyes 


118  SEA   DREAMS. 

Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far  away, 
Among  the  honest  shoulders  of  the  crowd, 
Read  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back, 
And  scoundrel  in  the  supple-sliding  knee.* 

*  Was  he  so  bound,  poor  soul  ? '  said  the  good  wife ; 
*  So  are  we  all :  but  do  not  call  him,  love. 

Before  you  prove  him,  rogue,  and  proved,  forgive. 

His  gain  is  loss ;  for  he  that  wrongs  his  friend 

"Wrongs  himself  more,  and  ever  bears  about 

A  silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast, 

Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  himself 

The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  condemn'd : 

And  that  drags  down  his  life  :  then  comes  what  comes 

Hereafter :  and  he  meant,  he  said  he  meant. 

Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant,  you  well.' 

*  "  With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye  askew  "  — 
Love,  let  me  quote  these  lines,  that  you  may  learn 
A  man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself, 


SEA   DREAMS.  119 

Too  often,  in  that  silent  court  of  yours  — 
"  "With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye  askew, 
So  false,  he  partly  took  himself  for  true ; 
Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his  heart  was  dry, 
Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round  his  eye  ; 
Who,  never  naming  God  except  for  gain, 
So  never  took  that  useful  name  in  vain  ; 
Made  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross  his  tool. 
And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe  and  fool ; 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he  forged. 
And  snakelike  slimed  his  victim  ere  he  gorged ; 
And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o'er  the  rest 
Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best, 
Droppiog  the  too  rough  H  in  Hell  and  Heaven, 
To  spread  the  Word  by  which  himself  had  thriven." 
How  like  you  this  old  satire  ? ' 

*  Nay,'  she  said, 
'  I  loathe  it :  he  had  never  kindly  heart, 
Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind, 


120  SEA   DREAMS. 

Who  first  wrote  satire,  with  no  pity  in  it. 
But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I  had  one 
That  altogether  went  to  music  ?     Still 
It  awed  me.' 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream'd 
Of  that  same  coast. 

—  But  round  the  North,  a  light, 
A  belt,  it  seem'd,  of  luminous  vapor,  lay. 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  musical  note 
Swell'd  up  and  died ;  and,  as  it  swell'd,  a  ridge 
Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and  still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when  the  note 
Had  reach'd  a  thunderous  fullness,  on  those  cliffs 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  hght  (the  same  as  that 
Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she  saw 
That  all  those  lines  of  cliffs  were  cliffs  no  more, 
But  huge  cathedral  fronts  of  every  age. 
Grave,  florid,  stem,  as  far  as  eye  could  see. 


SEA   DREAMS.  121 

One  after  one :  and  then  the  great  ridge  drew, 
Lessening  to  the  lessenmg  music,  back. 
And  past  into  the  belt  and  swell'd  again 
Slowly  to  music :  ever  when  it  broke 
The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder  fell ; 
Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  ruin  left 
Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters  round, 
Some  crying,  "  Set  them  up  !  they  shall  not  fall !  " 
And  others  "  Let  them  lie,  for  they  have  fall'n." 
And  stiU  they  strove  and  wrangled  :  and  she  grieved 
Li  her  strange  dream,  she  knew  not  why,  to  find 
Their  wildest  wailings  never  out  of  tune 
With  that  sweet  note  ;  and  ever  as  their  shrieks 
Ran  highest  up  the  gamut,  that  great  wave 
Returning,  while  none  mark'd  it,  on  the  crowd 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light,  and  show'd  their  eyes 
Glaring,  and  passionate  looks,  and  swept  away 
The  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men  of  stone. 
To  the  waste  deeps  together. 


122  SEA   DREAMS. 

'Thenlfixt 
My  wistfiil  eyes  on  two  fair  images, 
Both  crown'd  with  stars  and  high  among  the  stars,  — 
The  Virgin  Mother  standing  with  her  child 
High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  minster-fronts  — 
Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child  ^ 

Clmig  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  a  cry 
Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret's,  and  I  woke, 
And  my  dream  awed  me :  —  well  —  but  what  are  dreams  ? 
Yours  came  but  from  the  breaking  of  a  glass, 
/V  d  mine  but  from  the  crying  of  a  child.' 

Child  ?     No  ! '  said  he,  *  but  this  tide's  roar,  and  his, 
Our  Boanerges  with  his  threats  of  doom. 
And  loud-lung'd  Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho'  I  grant  but  little  music  there) 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream :  but  if  there  were 
A  music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries. 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream'd  about. 
Why,  that  would  make  our  passions  far  too  like 


SEA   DREAMS.  '  128 

The  discords  dear  to  the  musician.     No  — 

One  shriek  of  hate  would  jar  all  the  hymns  of  heaven : 

True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl  in  tune 

With  nothing  but  the  Devil!' 

'"True"  indeed! 
*  One  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an  hour 
Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me  on  the  shore ; 
While  you  were  running  down  the  sands,  and  made 
The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-furbelow  flap. 
Good  man,  to  please  the  child.     She  brought  strange 

news. 
Why  were  you  silent  when  I  spoke  to-night  ? 
I  had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving  him 
Before  you  knew.    We  must  forgive  the  dead.* 

*  Dead !  who  is  dead  ?  * 

*  The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A  little  after  you  had  parted  with  him, 


124  SEA    DREAMS. 

He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart-disease.' 

*  Dead  ?  he  ?  of  heart-disease  ?  what  heart  had  he 
To  die  of?  dead!' 

*  Ah,  dearest,  if  there  be 
,  A  devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too. 
And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge  him  with. 
His  angel  broke  his  heart.     But  your  rough  voice 
(You  spoke  so  loud)  has  roused  the  child  again. 
Sleep,  little  birdie,  sleep !  will  she  not  sleep 
Without  her  "  little  birdie  ?  "  well  then,  sleep, 
And  I  will  sing  you  "  birdie." ' 

Saying  this, 
The  woman  half  turn'd  round  from  him  she  loved, 
Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching  thro'  the  night 
Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close  beside) 
And  half  embraced  the  basket  cradle-head 
With  one  soft  arm,  which,  hke  the  pliant  bough 


I 


SEA   DREAMS.  •    125 

That  moving  moves  the  nest  and  nestling,  swayed 
The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby  song. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer. 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie. 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
TUl  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer. 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 


126  SEA    DREAMS. 

*  She  sleeps  :  let  us  too,  let  all  evil,  sleep. 
He  also  sleeps  —  another  sleep  than  ours. 

He  can  do  no  more  wrong :  forgive  him,  dear, 
And  I  shall  sleep  the  sounder !  *  ^ 

Then  the  man, 

*  His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  to  ceme. 
Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night  be  sound : 
I  do  forgive  him !  * 

'  Thanks,  my  love,'  she  said, 

*  Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,'  and  they  slept. 


THE     GRANDMOTHER 


THE    GRANDMOTHER, 


I. 

And   Willy,  my  eldest-born,  is  gone,  you  say,  little 
Anne? 

Ruddy  and  white,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  he  looks  like 
a  man. 

And  Willy's  wife  has  written  :  she   never  was  over- 
wise. 

Never  the  wife    for  Willy :    he  would  n't    take    my 
advice. 

6*  I 


130  THE   GRANDMOTHER. 

n. 
For,  Annie,  you  see,  her  father  was  not  the  man  to 

save, 
Had  n't  a  head  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into  his 

grave. 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty !  but  I  was  against  it  for 

one. 
Eh  !  —  but  he  would  n't  hear  me  —  and  Willy,  you  say, 

is  gone. 

III. 

"Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  the  flower  of  the 

flock ; 
Never  a  man  could  fling  him :  for  Willy  stood  hke  a 

rock. 
*  Here  's  a  leg  for  a  babe  of  a  week ! '  says  doctor  ;  and 

he   would   be   bound. 
There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes 

round. 


THE    GRANDMOTHER.  131 

rv. 
Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of 

his  tongue  ! 
I  ought  to  have  gone  before  him :  I  wonder  he  went 

so  young. 
I  cannot  cry   for   him,   Annie :    I   have   not  long   to 

stay; 
Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far 

away. 

V. 

Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie  ?  you  think  I  am  hard 

and  cold ; 
But  all  my  children  have   gone  before  me,  I  am  so 

old: 
I  cannot  weep   for   Willy,  nor   can    I   weep   for    the 

rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the 

best. 


132  THE   GRANDMOTHER. 

VI. 

For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I  had  with  your  father,  my 

dear, 
All  for  a    slanderous    story,    that    cost    me   many    a 

tear. 
I  mean  your  grandfather,  Annie :    it  cost  me  a  world 

of  woe. 
Seventy     years     ago,     my     darling,     seventy     years 

ago. 

VII. 

For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I 

knew  right  well  "" 

That  Jenny   had  tript   in   her  time :    I  knew,   but  I 

would  not  tell. 
And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me,  the  base 

litUeliar! 
But  the  tongue  is  a  fire  as  you  know,  my  dear,  the 

tongue  is  a  fire. 


THE    GEANDMOTHER.  133 

VIII. 

And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he 

said  likewise, 
That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of 

lies, 
That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met  and  fought 

with  outright, 
But  a  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder  matter  to 

fight. 

IX. 

And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a  week 

and  a  day; 
And  all  things  look'd  half-dead,  tho'  it  was  the  middle 

of  IVIay. 
Jenny,   to  slander   me,    who   knew   what   Jenny  had 

been! 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  oneself 

clean. 


134  THE    GRANDMOTHER. 

X. 

And   I   cried   myself  well-nigh   blind,   and   all    of   an 

evening  late 
I  climb'd  to  the   top    of  the  garth,  and   stood  by  the 

road  at  the  gate. 
The   moon  like    a   rick  on   fire    was   rising   over   the 

dale, 
And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrupt 

the  nightingale. 

XI. 

All  of  a  sudden  he  stopt :  there^^past  by  the  gate  of 

the  farm, 
"Willy,  —  he  did  n't  see  me,  —  and  Jenny  hung  on  his 

arm. 
Out  into  the  road  I  started,  and  spoke  I  scarce  knew 

how; 
Ah,  there  's  no  fool   like    the  old  one  —  it  makes  me 

angry  now. 


THE    GRANDMOTHER.  135 

XII. 

Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd  the  thing  that 

he  meant; 
Jenny,  the   viper,  made   me   a   mocking   courtesy  and 

went. 
And  I  said,  *  Let  us  part :  in  a  hundred  years  it  '11  all 

be  the  same, 
You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you   love  not  my  good 

name.' 

xin. 
And  he  tum'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet 

moonshine : 
*  Sweetheart,  I  love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name 

is  mine. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well 

or  iU ; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand:   we  two  shall    be  happy 

Btni.' 


136  THE   GRANDMOTHER. 

XIV. 

*  Marry  you,  Willy ! '  said  I,  *  but  I  needs  must  speak 

my  mind, 
And  I  fear  you'll  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard 

and  unkind.' 
But  he  turn'd  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer'd, 

^No,  love,  no;' 
Seventy     years     ago,    my    darling,     seventy    years 

ago. 

XV. 

So    Willy    and    I    were    wedded :     I    wore    a    lilac 

gown; 
And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he  gave   the 

ringers  a  crown. 
But  the  first  that  ever  I  bare  was  dead  before  he  was 

born, 
Shadow  and  shine    is    life,  little    Annie,   flower  and 

thorn. 


THE    GRAJfDMOTHER.  137 

XVI. 

That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  I  thought  of 

death. 
There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never  had  drawn 

a  breath. 
I  had  not  wept,  little  Anne,  not  since  I  had  been  a 

wife; 
But  I  wept  like  a  child  that  day,  for  the  babe  had 

fought  for  his  life. 

XVII. 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or 

pain  : 
I  look'd  at  the  still  little  body  —  his  trouble  had  all 

been  in  vain. 
For  Willy  I  cannot  weep,   I  shall  see  him  another 

mom  : 
But  I  wept  like  a  child  for  the  child  that  was  dead 

before  he  was  born. 


138  THE    GRANDMOTHER. 

XVIII. 

But  he  cheer'd  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me 

nay: 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he ;  like  a  man,  too,  would  have 

his  way: 
Never   jealous  —  not    he :    we    had    many   a    happy 

year ;  ^ 

And  he   died,  and  I  could  not  weep  —  my  own  time 

seem'd  so  near. 

XIX. 

But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  God's  will  that  I,  too,  then 

could  have  died: 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his 

side. 
And   that  was   ten   years   back,  or  more,   if  I   don't 

forget : 
But   as   to   the  children,  Annie,  they  're  all  about  me 

yet. 


THE    GRANDMOTHER.  139 

XX. 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who  left  me  at 

two, 
Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie   like 

you: 
Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her 

will. 
While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing 

the  hill. 

XXI. 

And^  Harry  and  Charlie,  I  hear  them  too  —  they  sing 

to  their  team: 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant  kind  of  a 

dream. 
They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my 

bed  — 
I    am    not    always    certain    if      they    be    alive    or 

dead. 


140  THE    GRANDMOTHER. 

XXII. 

And  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there's  none  of  them 
left  alive ; 

For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty- 
five  : 

And  Willy,  my  eldest  born,  at  nigh  threescore  and 
ten; 

I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they're  elderly 
men. 

XXIII. 

For  mine  is    a    time    of   peace,    it    is    not    often  I 

grieve ; 
I  am   oftener  sitting  at    home    in    my  father's  farm 

at  eve: 
And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh   and   gossip,  and 

so  do  I; 
I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  thongs  that  have  long 

gone  by. 


THE   GRANDMOTHER.  141 

XXIV. 

To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins  should  make 

us  sad : 
But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there  is  Grace  to 

be  had ; 
And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all  when  life 

shall  cease ; 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of 

Peace. 

XXV. 

And    age    is    a    time    of   peace,   so  it  be  free  fi-om 

pain, 
And  happy  has  been  my  life;   but  I  would  not  live 

it  again. 
I  seem   to  be  tired  a  little,  that's  all,  and  long  for 

rest; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the 

best. 


142  THE   GRANDMOTHER. 

XXVI. 

So  Willy  has   gone,   my   beauty,  my   eldest-born,  my 

flower ; 
But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for 

an  hour, — 
Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the 

next; 
I,  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.     WTiat  time  have  I  to 

be  vext? 

XXVII. 

And  Willy's  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  over- 
wise. 

Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie:  thank  God  that  I  keep 
my  eyes. 

There  is  but  a  trifle  left  you,  when  I  shall  have  past 
away. 

But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now :  you  cannot  have 
long  to  stay. 


NORTHERN     FARMER, 


NORTHERN     FARMER 


01 D  STYLE. 


I. 

Wheer   *asta    bean    saw   long    and    mea   liggin*   'ere 

aloiin  ? 
Noorse  ?  thoort  nowt  o*  a  noorse  :  whoy,  doctor's  abean 

an'  agoiin : 
Says  that  I  moiint  'a  naw  m^or  yaale :  but  I  beant  a 

fool: 
Git  ma  my  yaiile,  for  I  beant  a-gooin'  to  break   my 

rule. 

7  a 


146  NOJRTHERN   FARMER. 

II. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  for  a  says  what's  nawways 

true: 
Naw   soort   o'   koind   o'   use  to   saiiy  the   things  that 

a  do. 
IVe  'ed   my   point   o'   yaale   ivry  noight  sin'  I  bean 

'ere, 
An'   I  've  'ed   my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty 

year. 

III. 
Parson's   a   bean   loikewoise,   an'   a   sittin   'ere   o'   my 

bed. 
*  The  amoighty's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,* 

'a  said, 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an's  toithe  were  due,  an'  I  gied 

it  in  bond  ; 
I     done     my    duty    by    un,    as    I    'a    done    by    the 

lond. 


NORTHERN   FARMER.  147 

J 

IV. 

Larn'd   a   ma'  bea.      I  reckons  I  'annot   sa   mooch  to 

larn. 
But  a    cost    oop,    thot    a    did,   'boot    Bessy   Harris's 

barn. 
Thof  a  knaws  I  liallus  voated  wi'  Squoire  an'  clioorch 

an  staate, 
An'   i'   the    woost    o'    toimes    I   wur   niver   agin    the 

raate. 

V. 

An'  I  hallus  corned  to  's  choorch  afoor  my  Sally  wur 

dead, 
An'  'eerd  un  a  bummin'  awaiiy  loike  a  buzzard-clock  * 

ower  my  yeiid, 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I  thowt  a  'ad 

sunmiut  to  saiiy, 

An  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said  an'  I  comed 

awaay. 

•  Cockchafer.    - 


148  NORTHERN   FARMER. 

VI. 

Bessy   Marris's    barn  !     tha    knaws    she    laaid    it    to 

meii. 
Mowt    'a    bean,    mayhap,    for    she    wur    a    bad    un, 

shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  un,  I  kep  un,  my  lass,  tha  mun  under- 

stond ; 
I    done    my    duty     by    im     as    I    'a    done     by    the 

lond. 

VII. 

But  Parson  a  comes  an'  a  goos,  an'  a  says  it  easy  an' 

freea 
*  The  amoighty's  a  taakin'  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,' 

says  'Ga. 
I  weiint  saiiy  men  be  loiars,  thof  summun  said  it  in 

'aiiste : 
But  a  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  I  'a  stubb'd 

Thornaby  waaste. 


NORTHERN    FARMKR.  149 

VIII. 

D'ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass?   naw,  naw,  tha  was 

not  born  then  ; 
Theer    wur     a     boggle     in     it,     I     often     'eerd    ufr 

mysen  ; 
Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,*  for  I  'eerd  un  aboot  an 

aboot, 
But   I   stubb'd   un   oop   wi'   the    lot,    an'   raaved    an' 

rembled  un  oofc. 

IX. 

Keaper's  it  wur ;  fo'  they  fun  un  theer  a  laaid  on  'is 

faftice 
Doon   i'   the  woild  'enemies  f   afoor  I   corned   to   the 

plaiice. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby  —  toner  'ed  shot  un  as  deiid  as 

a  naiiil. 
Noaks   wur  'ang'd   for  it   oop  at  'soize  —  but  git  ma 

my  yaale. 
*  Bittern.  t  Anemones. 


150  NORTHERN    FARMER. 

X. 

Dubbut   looak  at  the  waaste :   theer  warn't   not   feiid 

for  a  cow : 
Nowt   at   all   but  bracken   an'   fuzz,   an'   looiik   at    it 

now  — 
Warn't  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer's   lots   o' 

feiid, 
Fourscore    yows    upon    it    an'   some   on    it    doon    in 

sead. 

XI. 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a  stubb'd 

it  at  fall, 
Done   it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd   plow  thruff  it 

an'  all, 
K     godamoighty     an'     parson  .  'ud    nobbut    let     ma 

aloiin, 
Mea,  wi'   haate   oonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's  an'  lond 

o'  my  oan. 


NORTHERN    FARMER.  151 

XII. 

Do    godamoighty   knaw   what    a's    doing    a-taakin'   o* 

meii  ? 
I    beant    wonn    as    saws    'ere   a   bean   an'   yonder   a 

pea; 
An'   Squoire   'ull    be    sa    mad    an'    all  —  a'    dear    a' 

dear! 
And    I    'a    monaged    for    Squoire    come   INIichaelmas 

thirty  year. 

XIII. 

A    mowt    'a    taaken    Joanes,    as    'ant    a    'aapoth    o' 

sense, 
Or    a    mowt   'a   taaken    Robins  —  a   niver  mended   a 

fence : 
But  godamoighty  a  moost   taiike   meii  an'   taUke   ma 

now 
"Wi  'auf  the   cows    to   cauve   an'   Thornaby    holms  to 

plow ! 


162  NORTHERN   FARMER. 

XIV. 

Looak    'ow    quoloty    smoiles    when    they    sees    ma   a 

passin'   by,  « 

Says     to     thessen     naw    doot     'what    a    mon    a    be 

sewer-ly ! ' 
For   they  knaws  what  I   beiin    to  Squoire    sin   fust  a 

corned   to   the   'All; 
I    done    my    duty   by    Squoire    an'    I    done    ray    duty 

by  all. 

XV. 

Squoire's  in  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reckons  'ull  'a  to 

wroite, 
For  who's  to  howd    the    lond    ater   mea  thot  muddles 

ma  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I  beii,   thot    a   wejint    niver    give   it   to 

Joanes, 
Noither  a  meant   to   Robins  —  a   niver    rembles    the 

stoans. 


NOETHERN    FARMER.  153 

XVI. 

But  suramun  'ull  conie  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  'is  kittle 

o'  steam 
Huzzin*  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds    wi'  the  Divil's 

oan  team. 
Gin   I   mun   doy   I   mun   doy,   an'   loife   they  says  13 

sweet, 
But  gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn  abear  to 

see  it. 

xvn. 
What  atta  stannin*  theer  for,  an'  doesn   bring  ma  the 

yaale? 
Doctor's    a    *tottler,   lass,   an    a's    hallus    i'   the    owd 

taale; 
I  weant   break   rules   for  Doctor,  a  knaws   naw  moor 

nor   a   floy ; 
Git   ma   my  yaiile  I   tell  tha,  an'   gin   I    mun    doy  I 

mun  doy. 
7* 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


TITHONUS 


The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall, 

The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the  ground, 

Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies  beneath, 

And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 

Me  only  cruel  immortality 

Consumes  :  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms, 

Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 

A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a  dream 

The  ever  silent  spaces  of  the  East, 

Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of  morn. 


158  TITHONUS. 

Alas  !  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a  man  — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice, 
Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he  seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  God ! 
I  ask'd  thee,  *  Give  me  immortality.' 
Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with  a  smile, 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they  give. 
But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd  their  wills. 
And  beat  me  down  and  marr'd  and  wasted  me, 
And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me  maim'd 
To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth. 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 
And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.     Can  thy  love. 
Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho'  even  now, 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide, 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill  with  tears 
To  hear  me  ?     Let  me  go  :  take  back  thy  gift : 
Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 
Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 


TITHONUS.  159 

"Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet  for  all  ? 

'^A.  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart ;  there  comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was  bom. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoulders  pure, 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew'd. 
Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro'  the  gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to  mine. 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild  team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke,  arise. 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosen'd  manes, 
And  beat  the  twihght  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo  !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  befon  ihiue  answer  given 
Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy  teai-s. 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying  learnt. 


160  TITHONUS. 


In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be  true  ? 
*  The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall  their  gifts.' 


Ay  me !  ay  me !  with  what  another  heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other  eyes 
I  used  to  watch  —  if  I  be  he  that  watch'd  — 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee  ;  saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings ; 
Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt  my  blood 
Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson'd  all 
Tliy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I  lay. 
Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy -warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  kiss'd 
Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and  sweet. 
Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  ApoUo  sing. 
While  Dion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine  East : 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  thine  ? 


TITHONUS.  161 

Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled  feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when  the  steam 
Floats  up  from^those  dim  fields  about  the  homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die, 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground ; 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my  grave : 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by  morn ; 
I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts. 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


THE    VOYAGE. 


I. 

We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy- 
That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth ; 

And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 
As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South ; 

How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 
On  open  main  or  winding  shore  ! 

We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round, 
And  we  might  sail  for  evermore. 


THE   VOYAGE.  163 

II.  • 

Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the  brow, 

Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail : 
The  Lady's-head  upon  the  prow 

Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer'd  the  gale. 
The  broad  seas  swell'd  to  meet  the  keel, 

And  swept  behind  :  so  quick  the  run. 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel. 

We  seem'd  to  sail  into  the  Sun  ! 

ni. 

How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire. 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
Fall  from  his  Ocean-lane  of  fire, 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar'd  light ! 
How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 

Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 
As  thro'  the  slumber  of  the  globe 

Again  we  dash'd  into  the  dawn  ! 


164  THE    VOYAGE. 

IV. 

New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 

Of  waters  lighten'd  into  view  ; 
They  climb'd  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 

Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean's  heaving  field, 
Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 

Of  her  own  halo's  dusky  shield  ; 

V. 

The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes, 

High  towns  on  hills  were  dimly  seen. 
We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 

And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 

Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove. 
Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker  sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 


THE    VOYAGE.  165 

VI. 

By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  in  shade, 

Gloom'd  the  low  coast  and  quivering  brine 
With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 

Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine ; 
By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  floods 

Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast, 
And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 

Glow'd  for  a  moment  as  we  past 

vn. 

O  hundred  shores  of  happy  climes. 

How  swiftly  stream'd  ye  by  the  bark  ! 
At  times  the  whole  sea  burn'd,  at  times 

With  wakes  of  fire  we  tore  the  dark ; 
At  times  a  carven  craft  would  shoot 

From  havens  hid  in  fairy  bowers. 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fruit. 

But  we  nor  paused  for  fruit  nor  flowers. 


166  THE    VOYAGE. 

vin. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the  waste  waters  day  and  night, 
And  still  we  folio w'd  where  she  led, 

In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight. 
Her  face  was  evermore  unseen, 

And  fixt  upon  the  far  sea-line ; 
But  each  man  murmur'd  *  0  my  Queen, 

I  follow  till  I  make  thee  mine.* 

IX. 

And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam'd 

Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air. 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem'd 

Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge  fair, 
Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 

Like  Heavenly  Hope  she  crown*d  the  sea, 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed. 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 


THE   VOYAGE.  167 

9 

X. 

And  only  one  among  us  —  him 

We  pleased  not  —  he  was  seldom  pleased : 
He  saw  not  far :  his  eyes  were  dim : 

But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 
'  A  ship  of  fools  *  he  shriek'd  in  spite, 

*  A  ship  of  fools '  he  sneer'd  and  wept. 
And  overboard  one  stormy  night  ^ 

He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 

XT. 

And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl'd, 

Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn  ; 
We  loved  the  glories  of  the  world, 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn ; 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and  cease. 

But  wjience  were  those  that  drove  the  sail 
Across  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace, 

And  to  and  thro'  the  counter-gale  ? 


168  THE    VOYAGE. 

xn. 

'  Again  to  colder  climes  we  came, 

For  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led : 
Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame, 

And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead. 
But  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sound 

We  follow  that  which  flies  before : 
We  know  the  merry  world  is  round, 

And  we  may  sail  for  evermore. 


IN    THE    VALLEY    OF    CAUTERETZ. 


All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white, 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening  of  the  night, 

All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow, 

I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thirty  years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley  while  I  walk'd  to-day. 

The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist  that  rolls  away  ; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  bed 

Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice  of  the  dead. 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and  tree. 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice  to  me. 


THE     FLOWER 


Once  in  a  golden  hour 
I  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 

Up  there  came  a  flower, 
The  people  said,  a  weed. 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower, 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 


THE   FLOWER.  171 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a  crown  of  light, 
But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall 
•     Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow*d  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 
Till  all  the  people  cried 

*  Splendid  is  the  flower.' 

Read  my  little  fable : 

He  that  runs  may  read. 
Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now. 

For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough. 

And  some  are  poor  indeed ; 
And  now  again  the  people 

Call  it  but  a  weed. 


REQUIESCAT. 


Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place, 

Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly  slowly  glides. 
It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 

Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 

And  fairer  she,  but  ah  how  soon  to  die ! 

Her  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour  may  cease. 
Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 

To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


THE    SAILOR-BOY. 


He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope, 
Shot  o'er  the  seething  harbor-bar,      " 

And  reach'd  the  ship  and  caught  the  rope, 
And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

*  O  boy,  tho'  thou  art  young  and  proud, 
I  see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 


174  THE    SAILOR-BOY. 

*  The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 

In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 
And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks, 

And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play.' 

'  Fool,'  he  answer'd,  *  death  is  sure 

To  those  that  stay  and  those  that  roam, 

±Jut  I  will  nevermore  endure 

To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

*  My  mother  clings  about  my  neck, 

My  sisters  crying  "  stay  for  shame  ; " 
My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck. 

They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to  blame. 

*  God  help  me !  save  I  take  my  part 

Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 
A  devil  rises  in  my  heart, 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me.' 


THE     ISLET. 


*  WnrrHER  0  whither  love  shall  we  go, 
For  a  score  of  sweet  little  summers  or  so  * 
The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said, 

On  the  day  that  follow'd  the  day  she  was  wed, 

*  Whither  O  whither  love  shall  we  go  ? ' 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
Turn'd  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a  sudden  crash, 
Singing, '  and  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
With  a  crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor  rash. 


176  THE    ISLET. 

But  a  bevy  of  Eroses  apple-^heek'd, 

In  a  shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak'd, 

With  a  satin  sail  of  a  ruby  glow, 

To  a  sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I  know, 

A  mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak'd ; 

Waves  on  a  diamond  shingle  dash, 

Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 

Fairily-delicate  palaces  shine 

Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 

And  overstream'd  and  silvery-streak'd 

With  many  a  rivulet  high  against  the  Sun 

The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain  flash 

Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine.' 

*  Thither  O  thither,  love,  let  us  go.' 

*  No,  no,  no ! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear, 
There  is  but  one  bird  with  a  musical  throat, 
And  his  compass  is  but  of  a  single  note. 
That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear.' 


THE   ISLET.  177 

*  Mock  me  not !  mock  me  not !  love,  let  us  go.' 

*  No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom  on  the  tree, 
And  a  storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely  sea. 
And  a  worm  is  there  in  the  lonely  wood. 
That  pierces  the  J^ver  and  blackens  the  blood. 
And  makes  it  a  sorrow  to  be.' 


8* 


THE     RINGLET. 


*  Your  ringlets,  your  ringlets, 

That  look  so  golden-gay, 
If  you  will  give  me  one,  but  one. 

To  kiss  it  night  and  day, 
Then  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Will  turn  it  silver-gray  ; 
And  then  shall  I  know  it  is  all  true  gold 
To  flame  and  sparkle  and  stream  as  of  old, 
Till  all  the  comets  in  heaven  are  cold, 

And  all  her  stars  decay.' 


THE   RINGLET.  179 

*  Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by ; 
This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  L* 

2. 

*  My  ringlet,  my  ringlet, 

That  art  so  golden-gay, 
Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Can  turn  thee  silver-gray  ; 
And  a  lad  may  wink,  and  a  girl  may  hint, 

And  a  fool  may  say  his  say ; 
For  my  doubts  and  fears  were  all  amiss. 
And  I  swear  henceforth  by  this  and  this, 
That  a  doubt  will  only  come  for  a  kiss. 

And  a  fear  to  be  kiss'd  away.* 

*  Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by : 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I.' 


\ 

180  THE   RINGLET. 


II. 

0  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  kiss'd  you  night  and  day, 
And  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  still  are  golden-gay, 
But  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  should  be  silver-gray : 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I  'm  told, 

1  that  took  you  for  true  gold. 

She  that  gave  you  's  bought  and  sold, 
Sold,  sold. 

2. 

O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  blush'd  a  rosy  red. 
When  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  dipt  you  from  her  head, 
.And  Ringlet,  O  Riuglet, 


THE    RINGLET.  I31 

She  gave  you  me,  and  said, 
*  Come,  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I.* 
O  fie,  you  golden  nothing,  fie 
You  golden  lie. 


O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  count  you  much  to  blame, 
For  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  put  me  much  to  shame, 
So  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  doom  you  to  the  flame. 
For  what  is  this  which  npw  I  learn, 
Has  given  all  my  faith  a  turn  ? 
Bum,  you  glossy  heretic,  burn. 
Burn,  bum. 


A    WELCOME    TO    ALEXANDRA. 

March  7,  1863. 


Sea-:^ings*  daughter  from  over  the  sea, 

Alexandra ! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 

Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of  fleet ! 

Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the  street ! 

Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and  sweet. 

Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet ! 

Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers ! 

Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-budded  bowers  ! 

Blazon  your  mottos  of  blessing  and  prayer ! 

Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is  ours  ! 


WELCOME   TO    ALEXANDRA.  183 

"Warble,  O  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare  ! 
Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers  I 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare ! 
Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire  I 
Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air ! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire  I 
Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and  higher 
Melt  into  stars  for  the  land's  desire ! 
Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 
Roll  as  a  ground-swell  dash'd  on  the  strand, 
Roar  as*  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the  land. 
And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's  desire, 
The  sea-kings'  daughter^  as  happy  as  fair. 
Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir, 
Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the  sea  — 
O  joy  to  the  people  and  joy  to  the  throne, 
Come  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  us  your  own : 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we. 
Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be, 
We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 


ODE 


SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL  EXHIBITION. 


LfpLiFT  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet, 
In  this  wide  hall  with  earth's  inventions  stored, 
And  praise  th'  invisible  universal  Lord, 

Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  nations  meet, 
Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor  have  outpour'd 

Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our  feet. 

O  silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 

Moum'd  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee. 

For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks  to  thee ! 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine. 
And,  lo !  the  long  laborious  miles 
Of  Palace ;  lo !  the  giant  aisles, 


ODE.  185 

Rich  in  model  and  design ; 

Harvest-tool  and  husbandry, 

Loom  and  wheel  and  engin'ry, 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine, 

Steel  and  gold,  and  com  and  wine, 

Fabric  rough,  or  Fairy  fine, 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a  feast 

Of  wonder,  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Part  divine ! 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use, 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce. 

Brought  from  under  every  star, 
Blown  from  over  every  main, 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of  war. 

O  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who  reign. 
From  growing  commerce  loose  her  latest  chain. 
And  let  the  fair  white-winged  peacemaker  fly 


186  ODE. 

To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky, 
And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden  hours, 
Till  each  man  finds  his  own  in  all  men's  good, 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brotherhood, 
Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  armed  towers, 
And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's  powers, 
And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  peace  and  crown'd  with* 
all  her  flowers. 


A    DEDICATION. 


Dear,  near  and  true  —  no  truer  Time  himself 
Can  prove  you,  tho'  he  make  you  evermore 
Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of  life 
Shoots  to  the  fall  —  take  this,  and  pray  that  he, 
Who  wrote  it,  honoring  your  sweet  faith  in  him, 
May  trust  himself,  and  slighting  scorn  and  praise, 
As  one  who  feels  the  immeasurable  world. 
Attain  the  wise  indifference  of  the  wise ; 
And  after  Autumn  past,  if  left  to  pass 
Life's  autumn  into  seeining-leafless  years, 
Arrive  in  peace  at  the  bare  head,  and  wear 
His  wisdom  lightly,  like  the  delicate  fruit  — 
You  know  it,  tho*  the  name  is  rude  enough  — 
Which  in  the  winter  woodland  looks  a  flower. 


EXPERIMENTS 


BOADICEA 


While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian 
legionaries 

Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of  the  Druid  and 
Druidess, 

Far  in  the  East  Boadic^a,  standing  loftily  char- 
ioted, 

Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her  in  her  fierce 
volubility, 

Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony 
Cdmulodune, 

ITell'd  and  shriek'd  between  her  daughters  o'er  a  wild 
confederacy. 


192  BOADICEA. 

'They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call  us  Britain's 
barbarous  populaces, 

Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen,  did  they  pity  me 
supplicating  ? 

Shall  I  heed  them  in  their  anguish  ?  shall  I  brook  to  be 
supplicated  ? 

Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Tri- 
nobant ! 

Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle's  beak  and  talon  anni- 
hilate us? 

Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorily  quiv- 
ering ? 

Bark  an  answer,  Britain's  raven !  bark  and  blacken 
innumerable. 

Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make  the  carcase  a 
skeleton, 

Kite  and  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolfkin,  from  the  wilderness, 
wallow  in  it, 

Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brighten'd,  Taranis  be  pro- 
pitiated. 


BOiDICEA.  193 

Lo  their  colony  half-defended!  lo  their  colony,  Cdmu- 

lodiine ! 
There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  mock  at  a  barbarous 

adversary. 
There   the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a  gluttonous 

emperor-idiot. 
Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity :  hear  it.  Spirit  of 

Cdssivelaiin  1 

*  Heat  it,  Gods !  the  Gods  have  heard  it,  O  Icenian, 
O  Coritanian ! 
,     Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answei-'d,  Catieuchlanian, 
Trinobant. 

These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utter- 
ances. 

Thunder,   a  flying  fire   in   heaven,   a    murmur   heard 
aerially, 

Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  an  enemy 
massacred. 

Phantom  wail  of  women   and   children,  multitudinous 
agonies. 


194  BOADICEA. 

Bloodily  flow'd  the  Tamesa  rolling  phantom  bodies  of 

Jborses  and  men  ; 
Then    a  phantom   colony   smoulder'd   on   the   refluent 

estuary ; 
Lastly    yonder    yester-even,    suddenly    giddily   totter- 
ing- 
There  was  one  who  watch'd  and  told  me  —  down  their 

statue  of  Victory  fell. 
Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  Camu- 

lodune, 
Shall  we  teach  it  a  Eoman  lesson  ?  shall  we  care  to  be 

pitiful? 
Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant?   shall  we  dandle  it 

amorously  ? 

*Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritam'an,  Tri- 
nobant ! 

While  I  roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  medi- 
tating, 

There  I  heard  them  in  the  darkness,  at  the  mystical 
ceremony, 


BOADICEA.  195 

Loosely  robed  in  flying  raiment,  sang  the  terrible 
prophetesses. 

"Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery 
parapets ! 

Tho'  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho'  the  gathering 
enemy  narrow  thee. 

Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the 
mighty  one  yet! 

Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine  the  deeds  to  be 
celebrated, 

Thine  the  myriad-rolling  ocean,  light  and  shadow  illim- 
itable. 

Thine  the  lands  of  lasting  summer,  many-blossoming 
Paradises, 

Thine  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and  thine  the  bat- 
tle-thunder of  God." 

So  they  chanted :  how  shall  Britain  light  upon  auguries 
happier  ? 

So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and  there  cometh  a 
victory  now. 


196  BOADICEA. 

Hear  Icenian,  CatieucUaniaii,  hear  Coritanian,  Tri- 
nobant! 

Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the  lover  of  hb- 
erty, 

Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lash'd 
and  humiliated, 

Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine  of  ruffian  vio- 
lators ! 

See  they  sit,  they  hide  their  faces,  miserable  in  igno- 
miny! 

Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by  blood  to  be 
satiated.  -^ 

Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  colony  Camulo- 
diine ! 

There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted  all  the  flour- 
ishing territory, 

Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yellow-ringleted 
Britoness  — 

Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  inex- 
orable. 


BOADICEA.  197 

Shout  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout  Contanian,  Tri- 
nobant, 

Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipi- 
tously 

Like  the  leaf  in  a  roaring  whirlwind,  like  the  smoke  in 
a  hurricane  whirl'd. 

Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Cuno- 
beline  I 

There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of 
ebony  lay, 

Rolling  on  their  purple  couches  in  their  tender  effemi- 
nacy. 

There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted ;  there  —  there 
—  they  dwell  no  more. 

Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  the  palaces,  break  the  works 
of  the  statuary. 

Take  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter  it,  hold  it 
abominable. 

Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust  and  voluptu- 
ousness. 


198  BOADICEA. 

Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they  lash'd  and 

humiliated,  > 

Chop  the  breasts  from  off  the  mother,  dash  the  brains  of 

the  little  one  out, 
Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my  chargers,  trample 

them  under  us.* 

So  the  Queen  Boadic^a,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Brandishing  in  her  hand   a  dart  and  rolling  glances 

lioness-like, 
Yell'd  and  shrieked  between  her  daughters  in  her  fierce 

volubility. 
Till  her  people  all  around  the  royal  chariot  agitated. 
Madly  dash'd   the  darts   together,   writhing   barbarous 

lineaments. 
Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when  they  shiver 

in  January, 
Koar'd  as  when  the  rolling  breakers  boom  and  blanch 

on  the  precipices, 
Yeird  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear  an  oak  on  a 

promontory. 


BOADICEA.  199 

So  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumultuous  adversaries 
Clash  the  darts   and   on   the  buckler  beat   with  rapid 

unanimous  hand, 
Thought   on   all   her   evil    tyrannies,   all    her  pitiless 

avarice, 
Till  she   felt   the    heart  within   her    fall   and  flutter 

tremulously, 
Then  her  pulses  at  the  clamoring  of  her  enemy  fainted 

away. 
Out   of  evil   evil   flourishes,  out   of  tyranny   tyranny 

buds. 
Ran   the   land    with    Roman   slaughter,   multitudinous 

agonies. 
Perish'd  many  a   maid   and   matron,  many  a  valorous 

legionary. 
Fell   the   colony,  city,  and   citadel,  London,  Verulam, 

Cdmulodiine. 


IN     QUANTITY 


MILTON. 
Alcaics. 
O  mightt-mouth'd  inventor  of  harmonies, 
0  skiird  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 

]Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages ; 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armories. 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 

Eings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset  — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness. 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmui-ing, 


IN    QUANTITY.  201 

And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 

Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle, 

And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palmwoods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 


Hendecasyllabics. 
0  YOU  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers, 
Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers, 
Look,  I  come  to  the  test,  a  tiny  poem 
All  composed  in  a  metre  of  Catullus, 
All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion, 
Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears  him, 
Lest  I  fall  unawares  before  the  people. 
Waking  laughter  in  indolent  reviewers'. 
Should  I  flounder  awhile  without  a  tumble 
Thro'  this  metrification  of  Catullus, 
They  should  speak  to  me  not  without  a  welcome. 


202  IN   QUANTITY. 

All  that  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 
Hard,  hard,  hard  is  it,  only  not  to  tumble, 
So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 
Wherefore  slight  me  not  wholly,  nor  believe  me 
Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers. 
O  blatant  Magazines,  regard  me  rather  — 
Since  I  blush  to  belaud  myself  a  moment  — 
As  some  rare  little  rose,  a  piece  of  inmost 
Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 
Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ILIAD 
IN  BLANK  VER5E. 

So  Hector  said,  and  sea-like  roar'd  his  host ; 
Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses  from  the  yoke, 
And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his  own ; 
And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly  sheep 
In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted  wine 
And  bread  from  out  the  houses  brought,  and  heap'd 
Their  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  off  the  plain 
Roll'd  the  rich  vapor  far  into  the  heaven. 
And  these  all  night  upon  the  *  bridge  of  war 
Sat  glorying ;  many  a  fire  before  them  blazed : 
As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the  moon 
Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are  laid, 
And  every  height  comes  out,  and  jutting  peak 

*  Or,  ridge. 


204 

And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens 
Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the  stars 
Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in  his  heart : 
So  many  a  fire  between  the  ships  and  stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of  Troy, 
A  thousand  on  the  plain ;  and  close  by  each 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire ; 
And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses  stood 
Hard  by  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the  dawn.* 

Iliad  Y111.5A2-5Q1. 

Or  more  literally  — 

And  eating  hoary  grain  and  pulse  the  steeds 
Stood  by  their  cars,  waiting  the  throned  morn. 


Cambridge  :   Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


135,  SSrasl)fnaton  ^t.,  3Soston, 
July,  1864. 


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Robert  Dale  Owen, 
George  W.  Curtis, 
C.  C,  Hazewell, 

T.  W.    HlGGlNSON, 

Author  of"  Margret  Howth," 
Thomas  W.  Parsons, 
Mrs.  a.  U.  T.  Whitney, 
T.  Buchanan  Read, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
John  G.  Whittier, 
Gail  Hamilton, 
E.  P.  Whipple, 
Bayard  Taylor, 
Charles  E.  Norton, 
Francis  Farkman, 


John  G,  Palfrey, 
George  S.  Hillard, 
Henry  Giles, 
Walter  Mitchell, 
Henry  T.  Tuckerman, 
John  Weiss, 
Francis  Wayland,  Jr., 
William  Cullen  Bryant, 
Mrs.  H.  B.  Stowe, 
Harriet  Martineau, 
*'IK  Marvel," 
David  A.  Wasson, 
"The  Country  Parson," 
Rose  Terry, 
Harriet  E.  Prescott, 
J.  T.  Trowbridge, 

JOSIAH   p.   CiUINCY, 

Prof.  A.  D.  White, 
Edward  E.  Hale, 
F.  Sheldon. 


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